


A Father's Promise

by Shaderose



Series: Devil's Backbone [2]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, But not really? Kinda? Ish?, Celebrations, Discussions of War, Discussions of death, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fantasy, Forbidden Love, Gay Peter Parker, Gen, Genocide, Heavy Angst, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, King Tony Stark, Kings & Queens, Knights - Freeform, M/M, Mage Harley Keener, Mages, Magic, Magic Harley Keener, Not historically accurate tho, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Peter Parker is Pepper Potts's Biological Child, Peter Parker is Tony Stark's Biological Child, Pining, Post-War, Prince Peter Parker, Princes & Princesses, Promises, Queen Pepper Potts, Royalty, Slow Burn, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, War, talks of war
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:07:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26561872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaderose/pseuds/Shaderose
Summary: "The man barely hears as the people erupt into applause and praise, the sounds tuning out as he focuses in on the man approaching center stage.The man everyone was waiting for. The man that took his place.The man that he has to kill."~~Harley Keener, one of the few living mages- a separate breed of humans with a certain magical power designated at birth- watches the Iron Kingdom from afar, lying in wait, ready for the perfect moment to strike and reclaim the throne, a throne he deems as his own.Peter Stark, the Prince of the Iron Kingdom, tries to focus on becoming the best king possible for his kingdom, but can't stop the lingering questions and the continuous doubt of how the kingdom is run that pestering his mind.When they meet, however, their plans begin to falter as feelings start to bloom. With the flames of revenge and a lingering promise in his mind, will Harley persue his plans to reclaim the throne, or will he push it all aside to be with Peter, the one he truly loves? Will Peter continue on his path to be king, or give it all up to stay with Harley, in a relationship he knows is forbidden?~~Updates every Friday
Relationships: Ben Parker & Peter Parker, Ben Parker/May Parker (Spider-Man), Harley Keener & Tony Stark, Harley Keener/Peter Parker, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Avengers Team, Peter Parker & Pepper Potts, Peter Parker & Pepper Potts & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: Devil's Backbone [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1471658
Comments: 73
Kudos: 65
Collections: Parkner Royalty AUs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ProsperDemeter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProsperDemeter/gifts).



> aaaaaAAA ITS FINALLY HERE!  
> I have been working on this fic for a very very long time, about a year or so now, and its finally here!!!!  
> It technically isn't finished, I still have to write the last few chapters, but I should have them done fairly soon hopefully
> 
> Either way, I am so so so excited for yall to read this, it is my baby, my pride and joy and I hope yall will enjoy it as much as I do :')
> 
> A special thanks not only to Ally, who this fic is gifted to and who kept me on track through all of this (I love you so very much, thank you ❤) but to all of yall in the discord chat with me who had to listen to my rambles and gushes on this fic for forever, and who kept me motivated to finish it whenever I lost that spark for a few days. I love you all to the moon and back, thank you all so much 🥰🥰🥰
> 
> That being said, to you dear readers, a few notes of caution before we begin. This is gonna get dark in some places, and heavy topics will be discussed. The tags will get updated as we go along (no spoilers here bucko) but just. Keep that in mind. Read the tags, stay safe.
> 
> All of that being said lmao, I hope hope hope you all enjoy!! ❤💞❤💞❤💞❤

_Step, step, step. One foot in front of the other, dragged, aching, pleading for an undeserved rest as he approaches a clearing. Long stalks of grass sway in the wind, tickling at his exposed ankles, the bones jutting, his dirtied skin stretched thin over the roughed up marrow, crunching under his throbbing feet, the soles of his shoes worn out and covered in holes, almost falling off in their wear._

_The child barely notices, though, now used to the constant pain shooting up his veins, the continuous roar and clenching of his stomach, the way it flips and leaves him breathless, weak. He keeps forward, anyways, step by step by agonizing step. He had waited long enough. He knew she wouldn't have stayed out so long._

_She promised she'd always come home._

_He feels each crumb of dirt and sand, each sharp rock pierce into his heels, but he pays it no mind, keeping his eyes up, scanning the trees, the horizon for something, some_ one-

 _He freezes, his heart leaping._ There!

 _In the shadows, creeping steadily forward, practically_ silent _even while surrounded by fallen leaves and branches, was a man, tall and looming, holding_ something _that the child didn't recognize, that he didn't care to recognize, because he had_ found someone _. He'd know, he'd_ have _to know!_

 _The child pushed forward, rushing over to the man even as he flinches with every step, even as his body screams its protests. The branches beneath his feet crack loudly, echoing in the field and then there's deer, galloping away, the man spitting out words loudly, standing up straight and yet still_ flinching _when the child grabs at the cuff of his shirt and tugs. "Mis- uhm, s-sir?"_

_The man glances down at him with wild eyes, the lines of his face showing irritation in an extremely similar way to his mother, his eyes narrowed before widening at the sight of the child, at his mud covered hands and feet, his dirt ridden cheeks and emaciated frame, at his bright eyes, hopeful, longing, but nervous. He kneels down to the boys level, face softening, mouth opening to say something but the kid continues before he can._

_"Do you know where she is? Can you tell me?"_

_The man's dark eyebrows furrow, his face creasing. "Who, son? Your mother?"_

_The child nods clumsily, glancing away and playing with his fingers, digging the deep seeded dirt from his fingernails as he speaks, low, quiet. "She went to the market, like she always does, but she ever came back." He glances back to the man, looking at him like he hung the stars. "Do you know where she is? I miss her."_

_The man's eyes softens even more, the lines of his face melting in his sympathy. "I don't," He murmurs honestly, continuing quickly as the kids face plummets, "_ But _, I can help you find her." He stands again, his knees cracking as he does, making him wince slightly, before he holds out a hand, the other swinging the_ something _onto his back._

_The boy holds onto his hand, his tiny, thin fingers slipping easily onto the man's calloused, rough ones. "She went to the market, you said?" At the kid's nod, he lifts his head towards the horizon. "Then we'll start there, hm?"_

_The boy nods again, and then they're moving, the tiny child falling in line beside the older man, following him into the unknown._

~•~•~•~

A man stands at the top of the hill, listening as the chatter from below is carried by the wind, whispering around his frame and grazing at his skin before whistling around him, towards trees and beyond.

He stares at the crowd, all formed around the pedestal at the front of the stone castle walls, made of a deep mahogany wood, and kept together with glue and steel nails, sitting directly in front of the iron gates shining in the sun, in front of the home of the royalty, easily breakable, easily _flammable_ -

No, no. He needs to wait. Wait, as the others are, waiting for the main event, anticipation thrumming through their veins. They're here for the same reasons he is, though with different motivations, different expectations, different goals.

These people, people from all different walks of life, from the youngest babies to the oldest elders, from the beggars to the rich, the wealthy, from the fishermen to the mothers to the blacksmiths to the knights. Everyone from the kingdom, and some even from beyond, are here, waiting, for one sole reason.

They're waiting to catch the first glimpse of the hier of the Iron Kingdom. Of the son of the king. Of the _prince._

He forces the burning bile rising in his throat back down, curls his hands into fists and presses down the _urge_ , trying to focus his attention away from his roaring thoughts of the man. He scans the crowd again, head tilted, his longer ryestalk curl dangling in front of his storming eyes, moving gently in the breeze, the calculating stare stopping on a pair of younger siblings, twins from the looks of it, straying away from their mother with loud giggles spewing from their mouths, racing towards the stage hand in hand. The carefree innocence causes the man's lips to quirk slightly, an ugly envy and an awful bitterness rearing its head. He wonders how many more there would be, if things had been different. Wonders how many more children would be running around, playing, giggling, their spirits free without the burden of life on their shoulders. Wonders how many more adults, fishermen and blacksmiths, mothers and workers alike that there would be, if the war had never happened.

He can't, doesn't, focus on it for long, his attention being drawn away from the loud note of a trumpet, sounding from outside of the stone walls. His eyes as gray and heavy as the overcast skies above them watches as the musician plays for a few more moments, before stepping back, and allowing a servant to step forward, a roll of paper in his hand.

"Hear ye, hear ye!" The servants voice, loud and boisterous, echoes throughout the clearing and the man cant help but to huff out an annoyed breath, rolling his eyes at the pretentious starter. "Welcome to the inauguration of his majesty's first born, and the beginning of the celebration of the sun!" The crown cheers, loud roars of excitement, of hope. The man's eyes just narrow. "As he has reached his nineteenth year, the prince is now of age to help partake in the duties and roles of the king he will one day become. We have gathered to rejoice, and to commemorate this special occasion. Now, without further ado, welcome the Prince of the Iron Kingdom, your future King, Prince Peter Stark!"

The servant holds out an arm, steps back and bows just as another body appears on the stage. The man barely hears as the people erupt into applause and praise, the sounds tuning out as he focuses in on the man approaching center stage.

The man everyone was waiting for. The main event, the center of everybody's focus and attention. The man that took his place.

The man that he has to kill.

The thing that catches his eyes first is the crown upon his head, the bronze gold and crystals glinting in the sunlight, highlighting the elaborate patterns, the way the metal weaves into its self and spikes up at the end, establishing his presence, his place in the hierarchy. The man's chest twists more, the fire burning brighter, and his eyes narrow. The prince's darker brown hair is slicked back, mostly hidden under the symbol of power, with a single curl as the exception, placed perfectly on his forehead, just above his chestnut brown eyes. His features are softer, rounded, a sign of youth, and the man attempts to burn it into his memory, each little dip and curve, each little imperfection and scar, each placement of freckles and moles, to know _exactly_ who he is. Who he needs to go after.

The ceremony is continuing, the servant chattering more, and the prince bowing and waving, but the man barely notices, barely moves, barely breathes, marking mentally everything he can. The light jagged scar across his cheek, and the speckle of sun freckles across his nose. The way the tip is upturnt slightly, his thinner lips following suit but barley reaching his deep auburn eyes, slightly crinkled but seeming artificial and _fake_. The way his shoulders are tilted slightly, his body leaning more to the left, putting more weight onto his left foot but shifting every once in a while. The way his cape, long and a deep burgundy velvet, sits on his shoulders and cascades down his back, curling around his feet. His steamed, pristine navy jacket, matching pants, and shining black shoes, pulling the whole outfit together. Put together. Clean. _Perfect._

Or, at least, made to seem that way.

He just watches warily, closely, watches and waits, until the prince is turning, until the blood of his cape is the last thing seen before the wooden doors shut behind him again, and the crowd is scattering, blathering on about the ceremony, about their plans, about the celebration that night. He sits for just a few moments longer, feeling the cooling wind against his flesh, feeling the burning heat inside of his heart, before he pulls the hood of his cloak up, and turns, joining the crowds of peasants on their way to town, the face of the Prince of Iron painted perfectly in his mind.

~•~•~•~

The man walks through the crowd, passing many warm bodies giggling and shouting, swaying to the music that surrounds the clearing and swarms his senses. He keeps his head bowed, unseen, but focused, as he watches people swing themselves around, or slowly dance to the beat, encased in each other's arms. As he watches children racing around, running, tagging, laughing, some sitting in front of sailors and soldiers, telling quiet, scary stories of their heroisms. As he watches people clustering together, playing cards or just chattering away, catching up on old times. As he feels the sense of community, of joy, elation and _hope._

He feels his chest clench, his heart _ache_ , and glances away.

He comes to an opening and breathes in some fresh, cooler air, the itch tickling at his nerves easing as he moves away from the crowd, planning to find a shadowed corner to settle in, to think and plan and scheme, but then he spots a pub, the maiden passing out samples, and decides to make a pit stop.

He approaches the kinder looking woman, with deep set wrinkles and red freckles scattered across her looser skin, whose longer, brown frizzy locks are tied back with a clip, showing off the lighter gray in the front and her bright amber eyes, gentle but searing into his, seeing, uneasy and unnerving, a light smile tilting her lips. She juts out a hip, and her smile brightens. "Ya want some, honey?"

He feels his lungs squeeze at the name, but doesnt allow it to show, only nodding once as the woman already prepares his drink. He murmurs out a quick "Thank you" as she hands it to him with a grin, and a shout of "come again!"

He tilts his head in an acknowledgment, and walks back towards the corner he had spotted before, a shaded area beneath the tall stone wall, one of the many walls surrounding the village, the _kingdom_ as a whole, and settles in, leaning against it, sipping the liquor with a wince, feeling the bitter brown liquid burn down his throat as he swallows.

He licks his lips as he scans the town, seeing shops scattered throughout the long winding cobblestone road, selling anything from crops to legumes to fruit, from liquor to bracelets to decor, the vendors and buyers coming from near and far, of all different cultures, for this once in a lifetime event. To sell, and cheer, to _celebrate_ the monarchy. As if they aren't liars. As if there isn't blood on all of their hands, and darkness in their hearts. As if they didn't murder, kill and _slaughter_ innocents in cold blood, for something as stupid as _fear._

He shuts his eyes, and forces himself to take a deep breath. He can't let it show yet. Not yet. _Not yet._

He throws back the rest of the burning liquor, before putting the empty glass bottle onto the ground and making his way into the crowd again, his hands under his dark, navy blue cape, grabbing at the sheath of his knife as he sets his pace faster, people shifting out of his way as if parting the sea, some glancing at him with weird, almost fearful looks. Good. They should look at him, should notice him. Should be _afraid._

If things go to plan, he will be the ruler of this land before long.

He focuses on the castle in the distance, his prime target, and barely notices his surroundings, his vision narrowing onto the castle, his mind replaying his plan over and over, his hand clenching onto the ice cold metal of the grip as he gets closer, closer-

Someone crashes into him roughly, knocking him off balance when he randomly, on instinct, reaches out with his free hand and grabs the other person's arm to steady them both.

"Oh!" The other persons voice is high with shock as they turn to stare with wide eyes at the man, not noticing when it freezes, tensing suddenly, shoulders raised like the hackles of a startled lion. "I'm so sorry! Are you alright?" The man doesn't answer, his mind empty of words and thoughts, his tongue fumbling because he's staring into chestnut brown eyes, surrounded by darker brown curls and softer features and a scar on the edge of his chin. He's staring at Peter Parker Stark, at the _prince_ himself, wearing a darker, dusty red cloak, hood pushed over his head and neutral colored clothing underneath, clearly trying to _hide_ , to blend into the crowd just as same as Harley did, and he doesn't know how to react. The longer he doesn't respond, the more puzzled the prince looks, his eyebrows furrowing and his head tilting in concern. "Uh, hello?"

The man blinks, and shakes himself internally, planting on a smug grin and making himself look amiable, comfortable, at ease, even as his mind races and scrambles. He let's out a light chuckle, giving the younger man a glance over. "I apologize for staring, sir, you looked..." He tilts his head, playing into his facade. "Familiar to me."

The man flushes at the attention, at the words, and glances away bashfully for a second before looking back, laughing nervously. "No, I'm afraid we've never met."

A new plan clicks into place, and the man's smirk widens. He holds out his hand. "Well, let's change that, shall we? My name is Harley; Harley Keener."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter twooo
> 
> Tw, for some internalized homophobia, but this is a reaccuring thing throughout the story (specifically in Peter's chapters, but homophobia in general is talked about in Harley's too, later on) so yeah, just letting ya know lmao. Warning yall now. As I said last chapter, read the tags, stay safe, I love you all 💗💗
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!!!

"My son!"

The prince was squinting at himself in the mirror, combing his darker hair flat to perfect it, to make it the way _he_ wanted it to be, when the voice rang out behind him and a hand on his shoulder jostled him out of his concentration, causing him to almost drop the metal comb. Once the initial shock wears off, a big grin pushes up his dimpled cheeks as he turns his head to stare up at the older man before him, teasing lightly. "Father! You're going to make me mess up!"

"Mess up?" The king, Anthony Stark, his father says incredulously, pushing his son's shoulder roughly, playfully, causing Peter to almost topple over and yelp out a small "hey!"

"Mess up what, your hair? Did Mrs. Parker not comb it for you?"

"No, she did," Peter quickly reassures, stabling himself in his chair before mock glaring at his father, who is looking at him with a cheeky grin. "But you know I don't like the way she does it. She always parts it in half, and makes it look weird."

"Makes it look _professional,_ you mean." The older man correct softly, grabbing the metal tool out of his son's hand and running it gently over his scalp, making Peter melt into a puddle like ice in a sunlight. "You know this is a big day, Peter."

Oh, he knew. He knew the day of coronation- the day when the village would truly accept him and see him as their prince- was important. He has known it since he turned nine years of age, when they were thrown into this lifestyle without warning, when he first became a prince and learned that one day, he would be taking over the throne, replacing his father in overlooking the kingdom and keeping the village, their _people_ safe.

That doesn't mean he likes to think about it.

"I _know_ , Father." He replies, with a slight whine at the tailend of his voice, his eyes closing subconsciously as his father continues the gentle motions on his head, pulling his hair back flat, slick with water and a bit of gel. "But that doesn't mean I have to look like a fool."

His father scoffs, and Peter fully gripes when he stops combing, the younger reopening his eyes and opening his mouth before freezing at the sight of himself, the words dying on his tongue. "You won't look like a fool," He murmurs, as the prince takes in his appearance, the one curl placed perfectly on his forehead, the rest of his hair slicked back, the faint makeup accentuating his jawline and cheekbones, making him look older, wiser, _regal_. His father leans over for a second, out of view of the mirror, before the bronze steel of Peter's crown catches his eyes and is placed gently atop of his head. His father blinks a few times, his darker eyes glistening in the light, shining with a fierce pride and melancholy only a parent could understand, before he murmurs, tone shaking only slightly, "You will look like a prince. A future king."

Peter blinks back a few tears of his own, the smile growing and making his cheeks ache as he squares his shoulders and makes himself taller, trying to focus on the wave of pride rushing over him instead of the debilitating fear of expectations threatening to crush him at any moment. He pushes it away, as he always does, when another lighter, much more feminine voice chimes in from the doorway. "Oh Anthony, look at our son."

He looks away from himself in the mirror, towards where his mothers reflection is, leaning against their wooden door frame with an arm wrapped around her swollen stomach, her vibrant, velvet green dress swallowing her legs and encompassing her once tiny waist, her strawberry blond locks sitting on her shoulders and surrounding her thinner face, the wide upturn of her lips and the warmth in her sky blue gaze the embodiment of a maternal glow. "Mother," he nods his head in a faint greeting, his eyes burning again as he notices tears in her eyes, pleading, " _please_ don't cry, you know if you start, I will."

"No," she laughs lightly, dainty, wiping the liquid away with a cream colored handkerchief. "No, I won't. This is a happy occasion, there is no room for tears." She walks into the room, the clicking of her heels emphasizing every step until she stands on his other side, her hand mirroring his fathers on his other shoulder, until they're stood together, Peter sitting between them, the image of a picture perfect family in the reflection, framed like a painting. "You're so grown up," she whispers, staring at him with a fierce, unbridled love. "Where did the time go?"

"Away?" He teases, a light grin etching his features that quickly turns into a full blown grin as his father swats his head lightly, lighthearted, a deep bellied laugh escaping his lips, a few chuckles escaping his mother soon after. "But really, it isn't a big deal, Mother, Father. Soon, you will have another to look after and scold."

He looks over to the hand his mother still has protectively cradling her abdomen, swollen and puffed out like a balloon, rounded with the months of her pregnancy before glancing back to the mirror to look at his father as he speaks, "In a few more months, yes. But not now." His swatting hand retreats back to Peter's shoulder at that, his eyes glowing in the light cascading through the window.

"No, not now. Not today." His mother agrees, as she bends awkwardly to plant a kiss onto his temple, her face bright and her voice warm as she murmurs, "Today is all about you."

He knows its a bad idea to bring it up, but he can't help himself, the words spilling out before his mind can tell him otherwise, the words venom, and leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. "You mean this _morning_ is about me."

He knows he was right, from the way his father exhales, long and low, and from the way his mother purses her lips, giving him a disapproving look through the mirror.

"We've been over this, Peter." His father chides, stern, his eyes darkened and boring into his lighter ones. "You _will not_ be going to that celebration tonight. It is not _safe_."

The prince feels a flair of annoyance, of defiance, and glances away purposefully, turning his heated glare towards the mohagony wardrobe, knowing he'd only get another lecture if he kept the searing look towards his father. He doesn't understand the reasoning. The celebration of the sun only happens after the coronation of a new prince- as a way of celebrating the new light of the kingdom- and it is happening _for him_! Why must he stay cooped up, and watch from afar? Because of _protection?_ Just because he hasn't chosen his personal knight, the one who will watch over him at all times? What must he be protected _from_ , anyways? These are his subjects in his court; they're all villagers, workers, mothers, children, and everything in between. They're all _people_ , just like he is, just like _they_ are. Why must he be protected from them?

Especially when the celebration may never happen again in his lifetime. Especially when he doesn't plan to have a princess, a queen, or to have children of his own.

The hand on his right shoulder squeezes gently, and brings him out of his swirling thoughts. "We only want what is best for you, sweetheart." His mother murmurs softly, and he understands, he does, but why is _this_ what is best for him?

Why are they _afraid_ of their own kingdom?

It doesn't matter, he thinks, with a sick satisfaction twisting in his stomach. He already has a plan in place for this exact reason, because he _knew_ they wouldn't let him go, knew they would do whatever was 'best for his safety' and keep him locked away in the tower like the tales of Rapunzel his mother would read him as a child.

With some help from his best friend and servant, Edward, whom he calls Ned, he _will_ be going to that celebration, even if it is against their wishes.

"I know," He lies through his teeth, plastering on a forgiving smile as he looks back up to his parents with innocence and purity. "I understand, Mother, Father."

"Good." His father rumbles, squeezing his left shoulder tight before pressing a kiss to the side of his head, just as the footsteps of another person echoes in the bigger room.

"Your majesties?" They all turn as Mrs. Parker- May as the prince calls her, from her own wishes, or Auntie- stops in the doorway, her hands folded in front of her calmly, lighter hair placed up in a neater bun and coffee brown eyes warm as she states, "The ceremony is about to start."

His parents relent their hold as he stands, his father giving him one last kiss on the head and his mother giving him one on the cheek, before he follows the servant out of the room, shoulders squared and head held high, feeling his parents overjoyed, yet heavy gaze on his back as he steps out of the room, and towards the the entrance of the castle.

~•~•~•~

Peter feels the beat of the music trumming through his veins, matching the rapid beating of his heart, and laughs for the first time in a long while, wholehearted and true.

The plan had worked out _perfectly_. As soon as the overtly boring, overly _long_ ceremony had come to completion, he returned to his quarters to find Ned already waiting on him. They had discussed the plan again, the prince dismissing Ned's concerns with a swift _"I'll be fine, Ned, what could_ possibly _go wrong?"_ , before grabbing onto his sleek, matte burgundy cloak, throwing it on over his beige outfit that he had changed into along the way, putting away his crown, messing up his hair, and jumping out the window, making sure Ned shut the wooden shades behind him as he climbed down the cobblestone blocks until his two feet were on the ground. He then brushed himself out, took a glance around to make sure no one saw, before he _finally_ started on his journey to the village. To the _celebration._

_"I'll cover your rear,"_ Ned had told him before he had left, his gray eyes wide, yet true, _"But you own me!"_

So here he was, surrounded by people, _his_ people, his cloak up over his head so nobody could see his face as he walks with the crowd, his chest light and his face aching with his grin. He's taking his time, taking in the views of the celebration of the sun, the celebration of a lifetime to him, the celebration meant _for_ him.

A long, tall stone wall surrounds the village, only breaking for the castle- his _home_ , and for the three roads to the other territories, to the other kingdoms. Underneath those towering walls are the houses of the villagers, which are now doubled as storefronts and vendors, selling vastly different things from place to place. Just in the few steps he walks, he sees one family, a older gentleman and his wife, selling crops and vegetables, legumes and fruits, another selling trinkets and bracelets, and a third shop, a single woman, selling pottery and other handmade, handcrafted arts. Sees a man selling swords and knives, sees a retired knight sitting with a group of children at his feet, in the midst of a story he's sure is drawn out for dramatic purposes, sees multiple people playing instruments, usually string, fiddles, violins and guitars a plenty. He looks to the other side of the road, and sees many more shops, but also sees pairs, groups, swaying, spinning, bopping to the music of the band beside them, dancing to their hearts content, some with empty glasses in their hands, with looser movement and flushed faces, and some with closed proximity, and hushed words, gentle looks shared between the two. There's lights, strung from house to house, lanterns burning with a fire light and casting everything in an orange glow as the sun slowly begins to set, still high above the horizon but _starting_ to settle down, and Peter's heart swells at the sight of it all.

This, _this_ is what a kingdom should be, dancing and music and overwhelming _joy_. He feels so thankful, then, thankful that he ignored his parents words of warning, thankful that he pushed past his nerves to get to experience it for himself. For, how was he supposed to rule a kingdom when he didn't even know his subjects, didn't even know his village? How was he supposed to rule a kingdom he had never even seen, only in rare glimpses when he was a child, in fuzzy, patchwork memories?

With his attention elsewhere, Peter does not notice the man strutting with a purpose down the path before him until it is too late, causing him to crash into the other hard, sending himself reeling forward, only regaining his balance when the other person grabs his arm and holds him steady. 

"Oh!" His voice cracks, pitching higher in his shock before he glances at the other, a younger man with long ryestalk hair pushed back off of his face, sharper features, and crystal blue eyes that are wide, piercing into his soul. He tries to ignore the way his chest suddenly tightens, or the way his heart starts to race just a bit faster, hoping, _praying_ that the other man won't recognize his face. "I'm so sorry! Are you alright?" When the man doesn't answer for a few beats, Peter's face scrunches up, and he tilts his head to the side. "Uh, hello?"

The man seems to come out of whatever shock or stupor he's in, and his fuller lips tilt up in a smirk, his sapphires sparking in the sunlight as he says, his voice smoother and deeper than expected, "I apologize for staring, sir, you looked familiar to me."

Peter swears his heart stops for a second, ice cold fear running through his veins before his training kicks back in, and he looks away for a second, looking thoughtful, before looking back purposefully, a loose, friendly smile on his face even as his mind is screaming at him that he _knows_ , and his fathers voice echoes ominously _'show no weakness! A king must never show weakness in the eyes of his subjects.'_ "No, I'm afraid we've never met."

The man's smirk widens, before he's shifting and holding out a hand, with calloused fingertips and rough skin. "Well, let's change that, shall we? My name is Harley; Harley Keener."

Peter glances at the hand for a second, before prying an arm from his side and grabbing it, shaking it once, tight and firm, maintaining eye contract the entire time, watching the swirling sea of the other mans gaze. "Benjamin Leeds."

A name he had come up with whilst planning this whole escapade, an alias he could go under if anyone asked any questions, or got too suspicious. He thought it would send anyone off the tracks, off his case but there's a sudden amused glint in the man's- in _Harley's_ eyes that makes him feel uneasy, on edge, like it didn't work as easily as he thought it would.

He goes to release his hand, to have it return to his side, under the cloak when Harley turns their hands and pulls them up, placing a kiss on the back of his palm that sends blood rushing to Peter's cheeks, and causes his heart to warble in ways that it shouldn't, his stomach twisting and churning with bubbling, toxic acid. "Mr. Keener-"

The man must see his discomfort, because he seems to lurch back a bit in surprise, and drops his hand immediately, taking a pace back. "Oh, do they not do greetings in this kingdom?"

Peter releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding- _'a greeting, of course it was only a greeting'_ \- before responding softly, forgiving, "Not like that, I'm afraid. Just a welcome and a name will suffice here."

"Ah, my apologizes, then." His eyes shine with sincerity, a faint apologetic tilt to his lips, so Peter waves him off with a grin, nodding his head before beginning his trek again, pleased when the man follows along.

"It is no issue, Mr. Keener. What kingdom are you from?" A curious person by nature, Peter can't help but to ask, especially with the deep seed that has been planted in the back of his mind, slowly growing, unfurling, pushing him to know more about this mysterious man in the street.

He can feel the fabrics of their clothing brushing, the dark navy blues of Harley's clothes clashing with the neutrals and burgundy of his own, as they walk side by side. "I live on the border, between this kingdom and Gold."

Ah, the Gold kingdom. He has heard tales of King Oden and Queen Frigga, of their sons Prince Thor and Prince Loki, and their looser policies, their easy-going lifestyle. It makes sense that their greetings would be more affectionate, dare he say _romantic_ , in comparison to the Iron Kingdom.

Peter doesn't say any of this, however. Benjamin Leeds would not know any of this, _Peter Stark_ would. Instead, he cherry picks the first half of the answer. "On the border? I did not realize people still lived there."

The other man shrugs, his cape raising and falling, swishing with his movements. "I've lived there my entire life. It is all I have ever known." He glances over to the prince as he walks, his crystal gaze seeming to push past Peter's guard, and seep right into his soul. He tries to ignore how _vulnerable_ it makes him feel. "I'm assuming you are from here?"

He feels his lips quirk upwards as they come to a clearing, the crowd fanning out as they came to the end of the line of shops and vendors, as they walk further and further away from the music, chatter, and excitement. "You assumed correctly."

Harley goes to respond, a twinkle of mirth in his eyes and a wide smile on his face, but before he can utter the words, another, newer voice cuts in, feminine and sweet, "Back again already, sweetheart?"

Peter turns quickly towards the new inclusion, his eyebrows scrunching up unconsciously in his confusion, seeing an older looking woman with bright brown eyes and a kind smile looking beside him, at _Harley,_ a slight recognition swirling in her irises.

"Of course," Harley responds easily, voice as smooth as always and body lax, his eyes glinting with _something_. "Your ail was astounding, I just had to bring my friend to grab some too." Peter raises an eyebrow at him, even as his chest clenches and his heart warms. _'Friend, huh?'_ He thinks, maybe, he could get used to that. For the night, anyways. As long as he gets.

The woman's face lights up at the news, brightening like the wicks of the flames ever burning in the lanterns surrounding them. "Oh, I'm so glad to hear that! I'll go get your drinks right now, sirs!" She then turns on the ball of her foot, and disappears into her home before Peter can get a word in edgewise.

Peter chuckles, admiring her eagerness, when suddenly, Harley is pushed forward, sent staggering on his feet. He regains stability, before turning around sharply, lips drawn back in a snarl, to snap at whoever pushed him before he freezes at the sight of a young child, a little boy with tree bark brown curls, sitting on the ground and staring up at Harley with wide, fearful cinder eyes, shining with an abundance of tears. "'m so sorry, mister!"

"It's okay," Harley attempts, reassuring almost awkwardly, giving the child a faint smile that ends up looking like a grimace to Peter, his rigid shoulders, pressed up to his ears, and clenched jaw clearly showing his discomfort with the situation. The prince feels laughter bubbling up his throat, but pushes it down, stepping forward to take control, and kneeling down in front of the child.

"Are you okay?" He asks gently, making sure his voice is low, as soft and as comforting as possible, the efforts seeming to work as the child turns to glance at him, the fear specked in his face easing into relief and the tears burning at the edges of his eyelids fading, a small, careful smile pushing up the child's still chubby cheeks.

He nods once, twice, before stuttering out, his tone still high with youth. "Y-Yeah, 'm okay. Are _you_ okay?"

The child looks back up to Harley, but Peter responds for him, knowing he most likely wouldn't know how to respond, "He is okay, do not worry."

The child glances back to him, and nods again, forcefully, almost with his entire body, the childlike action making Peter's heart melt. "We- me n' my sister, we were just playin', dancin', sir, didn't mean to-"

"You aren't in trouble." Harley speaks up again, now, still clearly uncomfortable in the presence of the child, but trying, _trying_ to soothe his worries anyways.

The boy's mouth opens to speak again, when the woman from the shop interrupts him, causing Peter to jump at the sudden reappearance. "Frank! Be careful with the customers!"

The little boy, Frank, yelps, his eyes widening again as he stares up at the woman, his mother Peter thinks, seeing the faint similarities in their eye shape and facial features. "Sorry, mama! It won't happen again!"

Her stern expression softens into one of warmth, of motherly love as the boy stands back up. "It better not!" She calls after him as he races away, and Peter watches as he goes straight back into dancing with what he assumes is his sister, looking like a mirror image of her mother even at her younger age.

"I'm so sorry about that, sirs. They can be very rambunctious sometimes." Her voice is laced with sincere apology, and Peter just shakes his head as he stands, wiping the light dust and dirt from his knees.

"It is quite alright," He reassures, watching the two kids dance and shriek in laughter before looking back to her with a warm grin, noting the two drinks in her outstretched hands of which he takes one with a quiet thank you. "Are they yours?"

"They are," She nods once, her features softening as her gaze goes behind him at her children. "Both of them. They're my blessings."

"They always are." Peter murmurs, more to himself than anything, but apparently loud enough to be heard as the man beside him snorts and shakes his head slightly, his features scrunched up almost in disgust. Peter chuckles openly at his reaction, tilting his head towards the man. "Children not for you?"

"No, not really." Harley responds honestly, his gaze turning haunted as he looks back at the two children, darkened and solemn. His voice falls to a small whisper as he utters, "I wouldn't know what to do. They're so... small. Fragile."

"I used to feel like that too, when I was in my youth." The woman chips in, her gaze settling fully onto Harley, full of a heavy empathy and understanding that Peter doesn't understand, not completely. "But one day, you'll realize that the gift of life... it's all worth it. As I said, Frank, Lisa, my onlys, they are my _lifesavers._ Without them, I do not know where I would be. Dead, most likely." The brutal honesty ripples at Peter's skin, and he shivers with goosebumps, her strong darkened eyes glancing over both of them now, gleaming with a grim sincerity, serious and calm. "You will be great fathers someday. The _both_ of you."

Harley stiffens, his body language tense, almost _fearful_ , and Peter coughs, feeling the random, intense tension in the air and feeling the urge to alleviate it as soon as possible.

"Thank you, madam-"

"Oh, where are my manners?" She scolds herself, cutting him off as she holds out a hand covered in dirt and soot. "Maria Castle." 

A petty part of Peter wants to tell her interruption is _also_ a sign of a lack of manners, but instead, takes her hand and shakes it once. "Benjamin Leeds." He expects Harley to do the same, as is courtious, but the man seems rooted to the spot, looking terrified. Peter gives him a confused look, the tension pressing onto his shoulders again as he continues. "Well then, Mrs. Castle, I do hope your words will ring true in my future."

"Oh they will." She murmurs under in her breath in a way Peter is _sure_ he wasn't supposed to hear, but does anyways. It makes him even more confused, more lost, but he tries not to let it get to him, bowing slightly as a farewell, an exit to this now uncomfortable, awkward conversation as he turns away, drink in hand, hoping the other man will follow his lead. Thankfully, Harley does, following suit with a quick, quiet goodbye and thank you of his own before trailing after Peter rapidly.

The prince waits until they're a few steps away, out of earshot before he shifts his body towards the still noticeably _off_ man, asking softly, cautiously, "Are you alright? I know that conversation got a little-"

"Want to dance?" Harley blurts out of nowhere, causing Peter to completely turn around with an incredulous look on his face, which only increases when he sees the man stopped in the middle of the almost empty area, hand outstretched in an offering.

"Excuse me?" Peter gapes, blinking rapidly at the man who falters under the prince's stare.

"Uh," he shuffles his feet, before he seems to instantly calm, an easy grin forming on his face and confidence extruding from him that Peter now knows is _fake_ , is a _facade_. "Of course, a dance. This _is_ a celebration, is it not? Where you _dance_ and drink?" He waves the drink in his hand around as he mentions it, the liquid sloshing in the dark brown glass and foaming at the top, some of it slipping out of the head of the bottle.

Peter just stares at him for a few more moments in shock, trying to gather himself together and force the heat attempting to rush to his face back down as he shrugs and tries to keep his calm, tries to understand _whatever_ is going on. "I suppose that you are right."

He doesn't know what pulls him to put out his free hand, what alludes him to grab onto this stranger-who-isn't-really-a-stranger-anymore's hand, and allow himself to get pulled into his embrace. But, as much as he shouldn't, and _doesn't_ , admit it, he can't help the flood of warmth rushing over his body as Harley puts his other hand, still grasping his drink, onto his middle back, as Peter follows suit and places his drink hand onto the other mans shoulder, as their faces almost brush and their breath almost mixes with how close they are.

He feels an urge as they look each other in the eye, as he stares into swirling skies mixed with flecks of darker blues and greens, as he notices hints of freckles around the mans nose and cheeks, as he sees each line and dimple on his face, each spot and mole etched into his skin throughout the years of sunlight, and his stomach squeezes roughly, his heart hammering its cursed beats as his mind screams at it, that it is _wrong, wrong, wrong._ He shouldn't like this. He _doesn't_ like this, not with a peasant, a stranger, a _man_ no less. He thought he was over this. He can't feel like this anymore. He shouldn't. He _doesn't._

He forces himself to glance away and to lean his head back, taking a step behind him to start their gentle motions, starting the swaying of the waves of their dance as they step in a simple circle, their feet entangled and their bodies too close, _too close_.

"Are you alright?" He forces himself to say steadily, forces himself to push, knowing that he is caring too much, _too much_ for this man he barely knows, but not knowing how to stop.

He sees out of the peripheral that the man, that _Harley_ nods, even as his body language is still yelling his discomfort, though it does seem slightly eased. "I'm alright. Are you?"

Peter reconnects their eyes once he feels strong enough, the air knocking out of him as he sees the genuine concern swirling in those irises he adores but _shouldn't, can't, won't-_ "Yes, of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

His voice sounds monotone and emotionless even to himself, so it's no surprise that Harley's concern grows, and his mouth opens to respond back, most likely to push and pressure him on the matter. It is a surprise, though, when whatever words the man had dies on his tongue, his gaze focusing on something behind him, and filling with an unmeasurable fear.

Peter goes to ask him what is wrong, but suddenly, unexpectedly, all of the air is pushed out of his lungs as Harley shoves him with full force, with his entire body, knocking him roughly to the ground, a puff of sand and grit rushing into the air around him. He barely has time to gasp in dirty air, his lung burning and his back aching from the rough fall, before an arrow lands a few feet from where he lays, digging into the sand, the wooden handle cracking from the intensity and speed of the shot. Peter stares at it, jaw dropped as people start to rush around him, running towards cover or towards their homes, screaming and crying for safety.

As he lays there in the sand, shock and overwhelming fear flooding over him like title waves, like tsunamis, he realizes. Realizes that if he had kept standing, for just a few more moments, that arrow would have hit him, most likely in his head or his neck. Realizes that if Harley hadn't pushed him out of the way, he could have been severely hurt, or _worse._

Realizes that Harley Keener, the mysterious man he had met only a handful of moments before, had _saved his life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi to me on tumblr! @shadedrose01 :))


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter threeee  
> I dont think there's any warnings needed for this chapter, its mostly just filler oops, so let's just jump right into it!!
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!! :D 💞💞

_The child stumbles again as the way through the crowd, glancing up, all over the place the multitude of people surrounding them, some walking in their direction, others walking against their current, some with longer noses and shorter eyebrows, thinner eyes and plush lips, some with long hair down to their hips and others with no hair at all._

_It makes him gape, eyes wide and awed. He hadn't seen this many people before. He didn't know this many people existed._

_He almost forgets what they're there for, until the older man's hand squeezes around his gently, and his soft words reach his ears, just louder than the chatter of those surrounding him._

_"Any sign of your mother yet?"_

_The kid hums in a negatory way, shaking his head, narrowing his gaze and trying to focus on finding her, on seeing her bright blue eyes (_ "Just like yours, pumpkin!" _), seeing her longer brown locks._

_But its hard, hard to concentrate when each step he takes causes a sharp pain to shoot up his nerves, when his mouth is so dry with a lack of saliva, making his tongue stuck to his teeth uncomfortably, when the sweet scent of apples and meat floods over his nose and making his stomach growl, making it twist angrily and causing him to stumble again with a quiet gasp, his lungs aching, eyes burning._

_Mother always came home with food, for them. Breads, apples, carrots and potatoes, deer and, occasionally as a treat, antelope. But, with her not coming back for_ days _now, the child being left by his lonesome..._

_The older man seems to notice, somehow, as if he heard the loud roar of the creature lingering in his stomach, slowly coming to a stop and looking down at the kid with a swirl in his eyes. He doesn't say anything, just looks for a second, before pulling them over to the vendor, pulling out a coin purse attached to his belt and giving the vendor a few coins, grabbing two apples with a small thank you and a bow of his head._

_They step away, and the mans holds one to him without a word. The child stares at it, warily, cautious, before taking it with his free hand. He had saw the man buy it only seconds before, it had to be safe. He takes a large bite, the juices slipping down his chin and dripping onto the dirt around it, slipping onto his hands and making them sticky._

_The only man just chuckles at the sight of it, murmuring a quick warning of, "Eat slow, or you'll choke," before they continue down the winding path, continue forward on their goal._

_The child just rolls his eyes- he is eating slow, he_ is- _before taking another huge bite out of the apple, and another, and another until its just the core, which he drops onto the ground without a second thought. The man leans down to pick it up quickly, throwing it over to a patch of grass beside the trail, and when the child looks up at him, bewildered, he just shrugs. "Don't want trees on the trail, do you?" When the child follows his movements and shrugs as well, the man gives him a look. "Whens the last time you ate?" He asks quietly, handing him the other apple which the child munches on instantly, feeling the strength running through his muscles and making him feel better than he has in days. "When you're mom left?"_

_"Mhm."_

_"Your father doesn't feed you?" His voice sounds different, then, harsher and laced with_ something _._

_The child just glances towards the stones beneath their feet, swallowing his bite before echoing his mothers words, ones whispered to him in the dark, hard and cold the one time he had bothered to ask, "I don't have a father."_

_The man is silent for a few moments, a few steps after that, before murmuring a quiet, shocked, "_ Oh _. Well, let's hope we can find your mother then, hm?"_

 _"Yeah!" The child chirps up, feeling more ready, more lively now that he has energy in his system. Ready to find her and_ go home _._

_Except, they don't find her anywhere. They look up and down the street, glancing into the woods surrounding the town, they even ask one of the guards standing around, who gives the child a pitying look before shaking his head._

_The older man is starting to glance at him with pity, too. The kid finds he doesn't like that look on their faces. Not directed towards him, anyways._

_It doesn't make_ sense _, his mother came_ here _to buy goods, why would she not be here? Why would she_ not come home?

_"Is there another village, sir?" He asks as they're walking, again, back towards the castle looming in the distance, in the opposite direction of the setting sun._

_The man heaves a heavy sigh, and the childs heart sinks more. "I'm afraid not, bud. Not within walking distance."_

_"So she's_ gotta _be somewhere." The child whines, narrowing his eyes and kicking at a rock, watching it skid and roll in front of them._

_"Kid..." The man just sighs again, and lets the silence sit as they continue forward. Most of the crowd has disappeared with the time, and the shops were starting to close as the shadows started to linger and grow, as the light starts to fade from the sky._

_The child doesn't know where they're going, doesn't_ realize _until they're stepping towards the very same guard they had seen earlier, making him stop in his tracks. "Where are we going?" He echoes his thoughts, voice sound strangled, and the man gives him that look,_ again _, riddled with a deep sadness that makes his heart twist._

 _The older man kneels to his level, and the child already_ knows _he isn't going to like where this goes. "Son," He starts, and the childs eyes narrow. "Its going to be night soon. We need to make sure you're safe, and that knight, over there?" He nods his head towards the man, standing tall and strong, gazing over them with steely eyes, yet with a hint of recognition and sympathy. "Will bring you into the castle, and make sure you are-"_

_"No!" The child lurges back, yanking his arm out of the mans grip. "I gotta be home and wait for ma!"_

_The man face softens with the same_ pity _as before, and it makes the kids face scrunch up. "Bud-"_

 _He doesn't let him finish. Because, as the man steps forward to try and grab him again, the child turns and runs, as fast as he can towards the forest, with burning eyes and trembling lips, with an aching heart and a burning in his lungs. She will come home. She_ has _to. She_ promised _._

_Nobody, not the man nor the guard, follows._

~•~•~•~

He doesn't know why he's doing this.

Originally, he had only planned to enamore the prince, had planned to coax him into drinking a few too many bottles of alcohol before dragging him away to the woods to finish him off.

But now? Now, things have changed.

Every since that little boy crashed into his backside, everything Harley had known got shifted off of its axis, and he doesnt even know why.

He saw the prince kneel down next to the child, heard his kind voice, gentle tone, had seen his warm expression, so open and honest and true, and felt something inside of him twist, felt a pit he didn't even know existed open up with a roar, felt the creatures flood his body, his chest specifically, fluttering around and feasting on his organs, his lungs and stomach as if they hadn't seen food in months, in _years_. He had ignored it at the time, forced himself to look away, had tried to stay composed but when he looked back towards the shop, he saw the woman.

The shopkeeper was staring at him, wide eyed, _seeing_ , seeming to look straight through him at his overwhelming, confusing emotions, at something much much _deeper._

And then, it happened. Her brown eyes shifted gold, an unnatural vibrate yellow, glowing for half a second before going back to their usual color, and Harley had stiffened, gaping, in awe. He had found another. He had _found one of his own._

She gave him a sad smile, then, small and private, even as her stare swirled with a knowledge and a wisdom Harley couldn't understand, couldn't even begin to understand. He tried to rack his brain, tried to think of all he knew about mages, of what she could be, what she could _do_ , before the woman had spoken back up, and changed the subject before Harley could even blink.

The man had zoned out as the woman and the prince began to talk, just trying to regather his thoughts and calm his racing heart. He had known that some had survived, he had known he wasn't the only one, but to actually see one, another mage like him stood directly in front of him, in old, dusty _human_ rags, hiding in plain sight from the world that had refused to accept their presence...

It filled him with a rage, and added fuel to the already burning fire hidden beneath his ribs, causing him to snort and shake his head in disbelief, in distaste, in bitterness and disgust.

The prince had dragged him into the conversation, then, assuming the noise was due to the idea of fatherhood and children, an idea Harley had never even thought of before. Children didn't work into his plans, his ideals for the future. It wouldn't work with his powers, anyways, with the rippling flame beneath his skin only tamed for the moment, that could burn and char and _destroy_ in seconds. He couldn't put that burden onto another's shoulders, couldn't raise a child for _slaughter._

He brought up as much, voice deeper and more honest than expected, trying to act as if he was just shrugging it off, but then.

Then, the woman had looked him in the eye again, with that look of eery calm and collect, with the forbidden knowledge of things she shouldn't know, couldn't know, and told him that someday, he would be a father.

That him and the prince would _both_ be.

And Harley couldn't shake it. Couldn't shake the icy chill that had run down his spine. Couldn't dispell the feeling that the words meant more than they felt. Couldn't ignore the fact that it sounded more like a _prophecy_ than a comfort, than a reassurance of any kind.

It had been the dealing blow that had sent him completely off kilter, his plans vanishing in the swarming what ifs in his mind as to what they could mean, as to what she was _implying,_ so much so that he barely noticed when the prince responded, and had to force his feet to follow when the man had walked away.

He doesn't know why he continued to feel the urge and tug in his chest.

He doesn't know why he had continued to follow.

He doesn't know why he asked for a dance.

He doesn't feel like he knows anything, anymore. Not completely.

He needs the full picture. He needs to take a step back again, regroup his thoughts, think some more before putting everything into motion. In all honestly, he just wants to tell the other man that he has to go, walk home and _rest._

And he _goes_ to, when he notices the prince's body language, as they step and sway to a far away beat. Notices his tensed up shoulders, practically up to his ears, his clenched jaw and stiff arms, his shell shocked eyes, so bright and warm from this close up, cedarwood swirling with such intensity that it pushes the air out of his lungs, and causes that irritable _thing_ in his chest to act up again, to itch and tug and _yearn_ , until the prince glances away and spell is broken. If he didn't know better, Harley would assume the prince was like him, _them_ , too, with the way he entrances Harley with a single glance and makes the world dissappear. With the way he makes the man feel things, things he hasn't felt in _so long,_ especially towards someone he doesn't even know. Someone he's supposed to despise.

He _worries,_ notices as the prince stiffens up more and takes a step back that Harley tries to ignore, feels an ache in his chest that he doesn't even bother trying to understand. He worries for this man he doesn't know, worries for his enemy and the block on the stairway to the gates of freedom. Of justice. He _cares_ , if the man is upset and uncomfortable, he _cares_ and he _doesn't know why._

So when the man asks if he's okay, he doesn't think twice before answering honestly. Before returning the sentiment.

Doesn't think twice about trying to push, when the man doesn't bother to look him in the eye as he lies straight to his face.

Doesn't hesitate, as he spots a woman down the cobblestone road to them, holding her arm out, her hand on the trigger of a crossbow, aimed straight towards them. Straight towards _the prince._

Doesn't hesitate to drag the hand placed respectfully on the princes hip up to his chest and _push_ with all of his might, forcing the other man harshly to the ground and using the momentum, the strength of the push to yank himself back, just as the arrow narrowly whizzes past his face and crashes into the sand below him. Everything is slowed, in that moment. He can hear the loud thump of the prince's body hitting the ground, heavy and rough, but safe, but okay, but _alive_. He can feel the air around his head move, the breeze from the tail of the projectile ruffling his hair and brushing against his skin. He can feel the sand shift beneath his boot as he puts a foot behind himself, to steady and to stay upright as the arrow emits a loud _crack_ , hitting the sand, the wood snapping at the strength of the shot. He feels each second pass likes its an hour, can hear the breath pass through the other man's teeth, can feel each steady thump of his heart, each individual rush of blood through his veins. Can feel the world freeze as everything comes to a stop for a singular moment. Can hear the silence, as his breath is held, as the prince freezes with shock, as the woman realizes that her attack- her assassination attempt _failed._

And then, everything comes back to life, and it is _chaos._ There's screams filling the air as people, citizens and visitors alike, scramble away from the scene, trying to escape from an invisible threat, and Harley grabs his knife from its sheath, looks back to the crowd, to where the woman stood only moments before to find her missing, no trace of her in sight. She probably ran with the crowd, to blend in and act like an innocent, a bystander. He scans around anyways, knowing what she looks like, the crooked bridge of her nose, the vibrant grass green eyes, the hint of raven black hair, _knowing_ he could find her if he tried, knowing once he does, he can take her, hold her down and slowly burn her, bit by bit by bit-

Until his gaze lands back onto the prince, and his thoughts stumble to a stop again. As they seem to do, whenever the prince is involved.

He is still on the ground, having made no move to stand or run or anything, his hood no longer on his head. His hair is askew, looking stiff but messy, all over the place and now covered in a coat of dust, making the lighter brown strands turn sandy, and his mouth is dropped, open wide in shock as his eyes- His eyes are wide, looking almost golden now that they're in direct setting sunlight, and they're churning like a sea in a storm, full of overwhelming fear and panic, but also of gratitude, of awe, of- of _something_ that causes Harley's gut to twist, and a sudden heat to rush to his face.

"You saved me," The prince murmurs, voice dripping with an awe, a misplaced trust, barely a whisper and yet still so audible, so clear to Harley even through the wails and caterwauls filling the street, and the words, the _sentiment_ sends him reeling.

Because the prince is _right._ If he hadn't have pushed him out of the way, the arrow wouldn't have hit Harley, but it _would_ have struck the other directly, in the head or neck, and would have killed him almost instantaneously. He _saved_ him. Harley _saved_ the life of the prince he was meaning to _kill._

He fumbles to say something, _anything_ in response to the other mans words, but through the swarm of thoughts flooding his mind, the screams, and the rushing sound of blood in his ears, Harley couldn't hear the rapidly approaching footsteps from behind him until it was too late, until he was being violently thrown backwards and surrounded at every end, hands grabbing at his arms and forcing them behind his back at the same time as he's pushed down, landing heavily on his knees.

"What the hell?!?" Harley spits out, having finally found his voice as he thrashes against the hands and, then, the restraints as his wrists are suddenly wrapped by cool metal, chained together behind his back against his will. "Let me go!"

"Silence!" Someone orders from behind him, placing a hand onto his upper back and holding him as he continues to struggle and lash out. "You are under arrest for the attempt on the life of Prince Peter Stark."

"He didn't do it!" The prince defends quickly before he can do it himself, and Harley stops struggling, his head shooting up with wide eyes over to the pri- to _Peter_ , also surrounded by guards on each end but now standing, his shoulders squared and his head held high, looking more powerful and intimidating than Harley's seen him look all night, his weak facade diminished now that his true identity has been revealed. "He _protected_ me from the attempt, and _saved_ my life, so let him go this instant!"

Immediately, most of the hands holding him down release, only the hand holding his head down and his bound wrists remaining. The same voice as before cuts back in, sounding a lot softer, but still stern as he states, "Your father sent us with the orders to arrest anyone in correlation of the attack, your majesty, I must-"

Peter interrupts him coldly, his darkened eyes narrow. "He is not apart of this, Sir Rogers."

"But he knows information," The other man wheedles, as Harley turns his head slightly to glance up, seeing sandy blond hair and stern, knowledgeable oceans looking forward at the prince, unwavering even at Harley's shift. "So he'll need to be brought in anyways. I am only following the orders of the King, your highness."

Harley looks back to the prince, who looks conflicted at this, lips pursed and eyebrows drawn together, pupils flickering from the knight to Harley before fixating on the other man, nodding once. "Very well. Bring him in, but be _gentle_ ," He reiterates, tone stern and voice strong. "He has done nothing wrong."

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Harley is being pushed up roughly, forced to stand back up, and Harley _longs_ to twist back around and snap at the bulky man behind him, longs to turn these chains to molten and blast his way out of this mess, but even _he_ knows better than to go against the guard of the Iron Kingdom, knows better than to ruin his chances right now. And, there's a certain look on Peter's face, dark, serious and burning, staring again beyond his front and into his soul that makes Harley think twice about his actions.

So, he bites his tongue, even as the guardsmen manhandle him, throwing him towards the castle, and starts to ponder how he's going to get himself out of this mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi to me on tumblr!! @shadedrose01 :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayy the beginning of the longer chapters woop woop! I think next chapter is one of the longest chapters in the story so far?? Its like over 7k words oop  
> This one isn't that long, but its still packed full of stuff soooo
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!! :D 💗💗
> 
> Tw for internalized homophobia, but this (and just homophobia in general) is a running theme in this story, so this is probably the last time I'm gonna mention it lol  
> Be careful, stay safe, I love you all 💞

"Your highness-"

"No."

" _Peter,_ we were only doing as we were told."

The prince freezes in the middle of the hallway, swerving around to face the two knights of the guard trailing his every step, who stop abruptly as his heated glare lands on them. "You treated him like an animal."

The redheaded woman, on his left of the two, rolls her eyes before narrowing them at Peter, her gaze steely, searching. "We thought he was harming you."

"I _told_ you he hadn't done it."

" _Afterwards,_ your highness." The other one chips in, his ashy blond hair askewed, his sharper features blank, empty but his blue eyes were calculating, much as same as the woman's beside him. "And we all retreated as soon as we knew."

He was right, Peter knew. They had let go of the man as soon as Peter had said the word, but he couldn't help burning itch under his skin, the raging inferno in his chest at the memory of the way Sir Rogers had thrown Harley onto the ground, rough and angry, without restraint. He squeezes his still shaking hands into fists, looking away to glare at the wall.

There's a tsk, before the redhead speaks again, voice softer than before but still with a sharper edge, a hint of curiosity, "Why does it bother you so much?"

Peter wishes he could answer that. Wishes he could know exactly _why_ he cares so much for the mysterious man he had met on the street. They barely knew each other, and yet...

"He didn't even know who I was." He states instead, swiftly turning back around and continuing his trek through the cobblestone castle, the walls cracked and mossy, the wooden doors worn with age, lighted only by torches on the walls and the light of the setting sun washing the hall with a vibrant orange. "He thought I was a villager, a passerby."

There's a lower sigh, then, from the man. "Which is another thing we should discuss. Shall we leave it for his father, Tasha, or talk it through now?"

Lady Romanov hums in consideration, as another wave of frustration and indignation rushes over Peter. "I don't know, Barton, what should we do?"

"I'm _right here_ ," Peter snaps, playing right into their game, he knows, but he can't find it in himself to care right now, finding his emotions flopping all over the place.

"Don't we know it." Sir Barton gruffs, his harsh tone causing Peter to jump in surprise at the quick change. "Do you _not_ remember how reckless you have been tonight, Peter? How close you were to death?"

Peter whips his head around, his expression murderous compared to the knights still blank expression. "Of course I remember, _Clint_ , I'm pretty sure I was there."

The man's shoulders stiffen, his posture straightening the only tell of a reaction before he murmurs harshly, "Then you should know better than to talk back right now. You don't know the detrimental consequences your actions could've had for our kingdom."

"I was being careful," Peter growls, low, rumbling in his throat.

The man only tilts his head, but his nostrils flairing shows his true emotions. "Careful? Please. You got lucky, your highness, and barely that."

The man goes to step forward, but Lady Romanov holds him back, her hand on his arm. Even through her armor, the darker matted silver clinging to every inch of her lithe body, you can see defined muscles from years of practice, of training. "You almost got _killed_ , Peter." She reminds him, as he looks away with a huff. "We would've lost a king before he even wore the crown."

Peter doesn't know what causes him to say it, but the bitterness swirling in his chest ignites and he can't stop himself from spitting venom. "You would've had another, instead, in a few months. It wouldn't have mattered."

He feels the tension heighten, the air thicken with it as he sees Sir Barton take a step forward out of the corner of his eye, as Peter places a hand on the sheath of his dagger, as he braces to defend himself against the person who is supposed to protect him, who he's supposed to feel _safe_ with, when-

" _Enough!_ "

They both still at the booming voice and retreat- Sir Barton taking a step back and Peter releasing his weapon- as the noise echoes throughout the hallway. Peter lowers his head as Sir Barton and Lady Romanov fall to the ground, kneeling for their king, as Peter's father approaches, face stoic but twitching with irritation, shoulders tense and back straight, giving off the aura of power and overwhelming intimidation.

"My apologies, your majesty." The male knight is quick to murmur, head bowed and body language at ease, submissive in the face of their ruler, even if most of the time, they act as family. Lady Romanov follows, muttering the same, more quiet than Peter's heard her in a while, her surrounding presence shattered at the feet of the king. There's a pause, then, one where he knows they're waiting on him to do the same. To apologize, to bow. But Peter's on a bit of a streak, the fire in his chest is still burning- even if its barely a spark and coals, almost washed out by the freezing water of his Fathers anger, his fathers disappointment palpable in the air- and he _refuses_ , clenching his jaw tighter. He didn't do anything wrong. He has nothing to apologize for.

Its a few long, tense seconds before his father tells them to stand, and ushers them out. "Let me with my son, alone." His tone is grave and his voice wavers slightly under a multitude of emotions that Peter couldn't decipher.

Peter hears the patter of heavy footsteps walking away from them, the sound echoing and growing fainter and fainter until the prince has to strain to hear them, until he can't anymore as his father speaks back up, his tone low, almost a snarl. "Come, _now._ And not a word out of you until I say so."

Peter winces, but does as he told, not making a peep as he follows his father through the mostly empty hallways, only passing a few maidens along the way, who stare with wide eyes and hushed words that Peter tries to ignore, only focusing on taking steps forward, on making his way towards their quarters, where he knew his father was taking him. The more he walks, the more he hides his trembling hands under his cloak, his anger beginning to fade into anxiety, into fear and pain and exhaustion. By the time they stop in his parents main quarters, a large gray room with only a bed, a wardrobe and a handmade wooden crib in the corner, the flame has all but disappeared, only leaving ice cold fear and the bitter taste of regret on his tongue.

His father doesn't speak right away, choosing to first walk to the wardrobe and take off his crown, his cape and his shoes, making himself much more comfortable and making Peter that much more anxious, the tightening of his chest getting worse and worse the longer the King stays silent.

Until finally, almost to Peter's relief, his father turns back to him with hard, coal eyes- reminding Peter exactly _why_ he was here in the first place, the relief immediately disappearing- and utters one word, "Explain."

Peter swallows, lowering his head and eyes subconsciously from the charring gaze before meekly asking, "...explain what, father?"

Wrong answer, he notes, as his father stiffens and his expression darkens. " _Maybe_ you can start with the part where you _went to the celebration against my word?_ Against your mothers _and_ my word??"

Peter flinches again, but glances up as he explains, voice high and eyes wide, "Father, I just- I just wanted to _see_ it, you know how much I wanted to-"

"And _you_ knew how dangerous we said it would be, Peter." He interupts harshly. "How dangerous it _was_."

"I just wanted to see the village! You never let me go down there, and this only happens once in a lifetime, I'll probably never see it again!"

"You'll see it with your own son someday, when he is made a prince."

"Yeah, from far away, like you're forcing me to."

"For good reason, Peter Stark, you almost got yourself killed!" His fathers words echo around the room, and Peter wisely stays silent, flicking his eyes back down to the ground. "And where would we be then? A kingdom in despair and disarray, all because of a foolish prince who refused to listen."

All of the anger, the fight left in him completely vanishes then, only leaving the heavy stone of guilt in his gut. "I'm sorry, Father," He murmurs, full of sincerity and sorrow. "I just wanted to see."

There's a moment, then, where Peter holds his breath, unsure, before the older man let's out a huff of breath, long and slow, and steps forward, placing a hand gently onto his sons shoulder. Peter reconnects their eyes, then, his fathers so similar to his, churning with an frightful understanding, a light uptilt to his lips that doesn't reach the creases and drops as soon as its noticed. "When we heard of the attack, son, we were concerned. We wondered who would do such a thing. When we found out it was against you..." His father glances away, but not before the prince notices a slight glint to them, notices the red rims surrounding them, notices the way his grip tightens on his shoulder before relaxing again. The older man takes a moment, a breath, before looking back. "We need you safe, Peter. We _need_ you. Not just your mother, or me, or the guard. But the village, the _kingdom_ needs _you_." Peter feels the burning behind his eyes that he quickly blinks away, nodding once, twice as the lump in his throat holds off any words he could think of to speak. "Do you understand?"

He sniffles, nodding again. "Yes, Father. Thank you." He adds on softly, the grips clawing his chest easing at his fathers words, his _forgiveness_ , at the comprehension and understanding of his worth. His father gives him another smile, a real one this time that makes his eyes crinkle and his face soften, and pats him on the shoulder before releasing his grip and beginning to make his way back out of the room, most likely to talk to the knights or to go see mother when, before he can even think, Peter's blurting out, "Wait!"

The man stops, turning with a raised eyebrow as Peter shifts, knowing what he wants to say but feeling awkward now that he has the chance to say it. "Father, the man that came in with me, Harley Keener, he did nothing wrong. He _saved my life_."

"The man you were discussing earlier."

Sheepish, Peter nods, heat rising to his cheeks. He wonders just how much of that conversation his father heard. He doesn't know why it matters. "He was just a civilian, a traveler, he didn't even know who I was." He's trying to convince him of something, but Peter doesn't know _what._ "He's innocent."

"We know, Peter. He's only being held for information." His head is tilted and his face scrunched slightly. "He will be released as soon as he gives his statement."

He should be happy with that, he knows, should be thankful that he's only being held, not arrested, not imprisoned, but-

There's something itching at him, a little wisp of an idea that started in the back of his mind and slowly creeped forward as time went on, slowly transformed and grew until it was something Peter couldn't ignore. "He _saved_ me, Father. He didn't even know who I was, and yet he _saved_ me, protected me like he _had_ to, like- like it was his _job_ to."

His fathers gaze narrows. "Where are you going with this, Peter?"

"It felt like- like a _sign_. Like he was meant to be there, meant to protect me."

"Peter-"

"You said I needed my protection," he reminds him. "You said I needed a personal knight, like Sir Rhodes is to you, like Madam Romanov is to Mother. Maybe this is God's way of showing me who it should be! Maybe- maybe its supposed to be _him!"_

There's a moment, a pause where his father takes a long, deep breath and Peter holds his own. "You have an entire guard at your disposal, son. Why not Sir Barton or Wilson, Rogers or Barnes?"

"They're all great men, father, but they remember me as a child and they still treat me as one. I need someone who won't underestimate or belittle me like they will, and Harley, he- he _won't._ "

"How do you know?" His father murmurs low, but his shoulders are forward, his head tilted, his features intense, but intrigued. "How do you know he wouldn't when you've known each other for so little?"

Peter's heart clenches as he realizes he _doesn't_ know, but there's something in his gut that's telling him that he _does_ , that the man wouldn't do such a thing. "I- I just know, father. Its _fate_."

They sit in silence for a few more beats, Peter maintaining eye contact with his head held high, and his father leaning back as he contemplates his words. Until-

"We'll have to train him." His father warns, but it sounds like acceptance, like agreeing. "It'll take many months."

He knows what he means, knows that training means Peter's stuck in the castle until further notice, until it is complete, but he had expected something similar anyways, due to his escapade of the night. He feels excitement and hope alight his insides, glee brightening his face. "I know! I'll stay for however long it takes!"

His father hums. "I will _consider_ this option." He emphasizes, hinting to his son to reel himself in, and Peter does, attempting to push his building, overwhelming excitement and joy back down, unwilling to get his hopes up, "For now, though, go to your quarters and get some rest." His eyes soften, paternal love returning and warming his irises. "You've had a long day. We will discuss more in the morning."

Peter nods, feeling exhaustion tugging at his limbs, and bows slightly. "Thank you, father."

The older man waves him off as he exits the room, and Peter follows suit, taking a sharp right as soon as he does to make his way to his own quarters, his own room, hoping to just be able to lay down, relax, maybe get some sleep.

But as soon as he enters the room, he knows thats not gonna be an option for a while, and he honestly doesn't blame the bigger man pacing around his bed, his eyes wider than Peter's ever seen them, his owlish eyes flickering to him as he notices the prince, his back straightening as he jumps in surprise. "Peter!"

Peter gives him a faint grin, feeling sluggish and worn out, like an old rag. "Hey, Ned."

"Ohmyword, Peter!!" The servant shoots forward, enveloping the taller man in a tight grip that has Peter sputtering before returning the embrace. "Dude, are you okay? I heard all about it, you almost got hurt, like, _really really_ hurt, and then the guard found out and your dad- oh God your _dad-_ "

"I'm fine, Ned," He interrupts the man's frantic ramble, rubbing his back soothingly and feeling the grip on his clothes loosen. "I'm okay. Its all okay."

" _Is_ it?" Ned leans out of the hug to look back at him with coal grey eyes, his entire face scrunch with what looks like _guilt._ "Peter, you almost got _kil-_ "

"I know, I know," He is _seriously_ tired of hearing that tonight, shifting around Ned and making his way to his bed, already undoing the buttons on his cape. "But I'm _okay_ , so its _fine_." He hops onto his bed with a huff, the mattress cushioning his aching bottom as he peels the fabric off of his shoulder, folding it and placing it carefully on the end of the bed. His voice softens as he looks to his friend again, "Neither of us knew what was going to happen. You can't blame yourself."

Neds fingers twitch. "But I helped you sneak away."

"And I told you to." The prince reminds him, tone stern, final. "It was not your fault, Ned. I'm here now, and I'm okay, that's what matters."

"Are you?" The man presses, and Peter turns to glare at him, irritation rising in his throat and mouth open to rebuttal when Ned rushes on, walking over to the bed to pick up the shed clothing and put it away. "I mean, they were saying you were _arguing_ when you came in, Peter, arguing about a man or something, you _never_ do that."

He shuts his mouth slowly, the wave subsiding as he runs over Ned's words. He knows that he's usually not the type to stir up a fuss, knows that he doesn't normally talk back but there's something, _something_ about Harley, about the act of saving him, the way he makes Peter _feel_ that he just... he just can't help but to argue his case.

"I know," Peter murmurs, his head spinning. "But I had too. He deserves it."

Only once he has successfully put away the cape does Ned return to the bed, sitting beside Peter, head tilted slightly, body forward, curious. "The man?" When the prince nods, he pushes. "Who _is_ he, anyways?"

Peter snorts, leaning back and falling against the multitude of pillows scattered along the top of his bed. "Harley Keener. He's a civilian, lives on the edge of Iron and Gold. He was just someone I- _befriended_ in the village."

"And he deserves your arguments?"

Peter glances up to reconnect their eyes, comulonimbus clouds to sunlit tree bark. "He _saved_ me, Ned. Pushed me out of the way while we danced, while I didn't have a clue. He _saved_ me." Ned's gaze doesn't waver, still as sharp and focused as always, so Peter continues, beginning to ramble out his thoughts. "And- and he was _kind_ , Ned, so kind. He brought me to a store, a shop selling multiple liquors, and we talked." He glances up to the ceiling, a flush rising to his cheeks and a wide grin growing unbeknownst to him. "We _danced_. I don’t remember the last time I've danced, much less with somebody else. We had only known each other for less than a hour, if that, but he just- I was so calm, so carefree, so _happy._ He made me feel that way."

Usually, Peter would never tell this to a soul. He would bottle it up inside of him, and hide it as if it were a dirty secret, a sin on the world, and yet. This is his best friend, the person he has been with since _childhood,_ who he was raised with and trusted with his life. He would tell Ned anything, even something as personal, as _fearful_ as this.

The servant pauses for a second to think, assumingly, before murmuring softly, careful, "That sounds like me and Betty, when we met."

Peter thinks his heart stops when he hears those words, as he slowly sits up to stare incredulously at his friend, who looks worrisome. "That can't be true."

Ned just nods solemnly. "It is. We met by the stables, out on the training grounds, and as soon as I saw her... I just froze. She was so beautiful. Felt the way you said, happy, careless, youthful in a way I hadn't felt in so long."

The more the man talks, the more ice cold liquid runs down his veins, chilling and freezing him from the inside out, his gut twisting. "No," The prince laughs, but it sounds plastic to his own ears. "It can't be like that. He is a _man_ , Ned, not a lady."

"No," Ned agrees lowly, his gaze intense, but dropping as he notices the frightened look in Peter's. "But the sentiment seems the same."

There's a moment, a beat, of dread, of apprehension, of _fear_. "No," Peter mutters, a franzied finality to his tone. "No. It is not like your story. He is not like your wife."

"Okay, sire." The other man murmurs softly, his tanner hand grazing one of Peter's paler ones clenching the sheets, that the prince immediately releases with a puff of breath. "Just a suggestion."

Peter takes a breath, and glances up at his oldest friend with a hint of a smile, pushing up his cheeks but not meeting his eyes. "Thank you, Ned. But I am exhausted."

Ned bows his head in a nod, running his hand gently over Peter's knuckles in an simple apology before standing and taking his leave, gesturing to the folded pile of pj's placed on the nightstand- that he must've placed before Peter entered- as he does, Peter rushing out another quick thank you before his shadow leaves the doorway, a quiet click echoing as the door closes behind him.

He blows out the air in his lungs in a long, slow exhale, rubbing at his face, his eyes, feeling... a multitude of different emotions. Too many to count, to decipher. He longs to be able to close his eyes, and give into the tug in his limbs before his mind could start racing again, but he knew it was impossible. He needed to prepare for bed. And besides, the thoughts had already begun to swirl anyways.

He forces his legs over the edge of the bed, and pushes himself to his feet, trudging over to the pair of silk, maroon pajamas. He grabs them and steps into the ensuite, easing the door shut behind him before stripping, his vision unfocused as his mind goes elsewhere, back to the words his friend had uttered only moments before.

There was no way it was true, that the things he had felt around the mysterious man had been similar to Ned's wife, similar to the way he had felt about her, similar to- to- _that_. There was no way, it didn't make sense, and yet, there was a churning his gut that felt like longing, a clenching of his lungs that felt like denial, a stuttering in his heart when he thought of the long ryestalk curls, of the deep, thoughtful azure eyes, of sharpened features and a cunning smirk and-

No, _no,_ he forces those images away as he eases the softer pants over his hips, trying to ignore the way his body reacts, trying to ignore the awful, sinuous heat in his gut that is wrong, wrong, wrong. He grits his teeth, the back of his eyes burning and vision blurring as he grabs the remaining material and yanks it over his head. It isn't like that, it _isn't,_ it can't be. Harley is a _man_ , as is he, and the thought of that, the thought of them... _together_ should be revolting, should be horrendous and horrid, should be _anything_ but the way Peter feels. Anything but _alluring_. It is a sin, a man with a man, a sin in the eyes of God, in the eyes of the people, so he shouldn't be feeling like this, shouldn't be _longing_ for this, shouldn't be- _aching_ for it.

He needs a lady, a princess, a future _queen_ by his side. And yet, he doesn't think it twice, his mind flooded with broad shoulders, sculpted chests, and other traitorous things that make the tears roll down his cheeks and a stifled sob fill the air of the larger bathroom. He leans against the pearly white countertop and, thinking he is alone, curls into himself, allowing the bellowing sobs to escape his lips, allowing the salty tears to drip off of his shaking chin on to the tiled floor, until-

There's a knock, and Peter flinches. "Your highness?" A lighter, softer melody filters through the crack under the door, and the prince, who had held his breath, allows it to escape as a whine as he realizes who it is, who is stood on the other side of the door. His auntie May, another one of his servants who had practically helped raise him whenever his parents got too busy with the kingdom, who had held him multiple times when he cried as a child, and who he knew wouldn't judge him if he did now, even if a prince, or a king, shouldn't show such emotions. "Are you alright?"

Peter stumbles to the door and opens it, the older woman stood on the other side looking worried, concerned, her darker brown eyebrows creased together and her lip turned downward. "May," he whimpers pathetically, and she lets out a noise in the back of her throat, opening her arms that he launches himself into quickly, grasping onto dusty grayish, neutral clothing, and sobbing into her shoulder, darker spots appearing from his spit and tears.

"Oh baby, its okay," she shushes, running a soothing hand up and down his back, over his shoulders and into his hair, every trick in the book she knows will calm him down. "Its okay. It's been a long day, huh?" He just whimpers again, pressing his face into her neck, a few of her stray graying hairs tickling his wet cheeks. "Yeah," she sighs sympathetically, "A long, long day."

Peter squeezes his eyes shut, wishing, _begging_ that it _was_ just a long day, that the attempt on his life _was_ the thing he was crying over. It'd be better, easier that way. Instead, all he can think is of how _wrong_ he is, and all he can feel is dread and guilt.

After a while of him crying into her shoulder, and his aunt whispering soothing reassurances into his ear, he slowly calms, his eyes drooping and his body heavy. "Let's get you into bed, huh, sweetheart?" She coaxes, gently easing him towards the bed until he collapses into it, before tucking him in and pressing a light kiss to his forehead. And only then does his thoughts start to slow, allowing him to fall into a fitful slumber, a stone heavy in his gut and an ache in his heart.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... honestly don't like this chapter. Its way too long (8000 words!) And way too many things happen and bleh   
> Sorry for the not so great chapter yall
> 
> I hope you can still enjoy 💞💞💞

_"-llo?"_

_The child jolts awake, hearing the faint call, sitting up quickly and ignoring the screaming of his muscles, the way the room spins around him. 'Mom? Is she home?'_

_But then, the voice calls out again, deeper and rougher, throatier, "Hello??" And the child realizes, gaze and heart dropping again._

_He recognizes the voice, too. Knows its the same older man who helped him a day or two previous, but- as he collapses back onto the mattress with a small gasp, shivering heavily as his entire body throbs with a pulsing agony- he can't find it in himself to care. Doesn't have the energy to, anymore._

_He just closes his eyes again, shuttering and breathing slowly as he tries to fall back asleep, even as his body burns himself alive from the inside out. He's_ scared _._

_He just_ wants his mama _._

_He doesn't hear the man approch, the blood rushing in his ears too loudly for him to hear the crackling footsteps, the door creak open, but he hears the sharp exhale loud and clear, the rushing forward and the hand brushing away the curls sticking to his forehead, before running down to his neck, pressing into the crook of his jawline. "Kid? You with me? Please-"_

_The child lets out a faint groan, and forces his eyes to reopen, blinking heavy lidded up at the man, whose eyes are wide and terrified, his entire expression showing full blown_ relief. _"Oh thank God," The man breathes, his hand gently stroking down his cheek again. "Scared the shit out of me, buddy."_

_He just blinks again at the man, before forcing his left shoulder to lift, dropping it again as his face scrunches up in pain, as his stomach pushes claws into his ribcage. "'orry" He slurs, his tongue unsticking to the roof of his mouth, and the man just shakes his head._

_"No, no it's okay." But it doesnt_ seem _okay, the child notes from the worried crinkle in-between his eyebrows and the glint of fear still in his eyes. "Can you sit up for me, bud? Please?"_

_He lets the words sink in for a few seconds before he forces himself upright, gritting his teeth to not yell out in pain as his stick thin arms tremble and his body moans at him pitifully. "Why 'ou here?" He pushes himself to ask instead, feeling so so thankful when the man places an arm around his back to help keep him upright, not knowing if be could've managed to do so by himself. His eyes droop. He's so_ tired _._

_"Just to check up." The man murmurs lightly, heavy hand rubbing up and down the kids back and feeling every bone of his spine as he rummages at a bag he brought with him, and pulls out a flask. He unscrew the top, before holding it up to the childs lips. "Drink," He encourages softly, his eyebrows furrowing more as he raises small, trembling hands to grasp around the bottle._

_His first sip of the water, fresh and mostly clean, washes over his tongue, his mouth and cools down his throat as he swallows, and then he's pushing the flask forward more, swallowing more heavily, greedily, wondering how he ever went without water, wondering when the last time he had some was, wondering if this is how leaves feel, before the rainfall._

_But before the child can take too much, the man pulls the bottle away with a strength he doesn't have, and he_ whines, _fully whines in a way he hasn't since he was a baby, but the man just shushes him gently, rubs at the back of his neck and reassures quickly, quietly. "Gotta wait, just a sec bud. You drink too much too quick, you'll just throw it back up."_

_The child just grumbles, leaning heavier onto the mans side, rumbling with a faint chuckle as he digs into his bag again, pulling out some type of... berry? It looks like berries to him, but they're bigger, bulbous, and all connected by a vine? It's_ weird _. He's never seen them before._

_The man rips off one of the berries and holds it out to the child, who takes it with gentle hands and just stares at it quizzitively. "Its a grape." He explains quietly, picking up on the boys confusion. "Have you not had them before?" At the child's shake of the head and faint nibble of the piece, the man huffs, as if in surprise. "My son loves them."_

_The child doesn't expect the... wetness of the berry, but he doesn't mind the tart taste of it, so he bites the rest of it down, accepting more as the man gives him a few. "You have a son?"_

_The man hums in affirmation, hand carding through the kids hair soothingly, untangling a few of the knots with gentle fingers. "I do. I'm sure he'd love to meet you."_

_The child shakes his head, taking another bite. "I gotta-" He starts, mouth full of grape, but then stops. Pauses. He swallows, then, feeling sick all of a sudden, head down and eyes burning. "I keep saying I gotta wait for ma, cause she- she said she'd come home, you know? She said she'd_ always _come home, she p-promised, but-" He rubs at his eye with wet fingers, then, and sniffles, finishing miserably. "I don't think she's coming home anymore."_

_The man doesn't answer right away, but his pitying eyes are answer enough. "I don't think so either," He confirms in a soft hush, and the child trembles once, a few tears trickling down his cheeks that the man brushes away with his sleeve covering his hand, the fabric soft against his skin. "Thats why I brought you to the castle. So you could be_ safe, _taken care of-"_

_"No!" The child shakes his head, stiffening up suddenly, voice thick. "I can't-" His mothers voice rings in his ears, soft yet cautious,_ terrified _. "Its too dangerous."_

_"The castle?"_

_"The village." He murmurs ominously, gaze downcast._ 'They don't like our kind, pumpkin,' _She had whispered into his hair, as she held him one night, the fire roaring beside them, inside of him._ 'They'll hurt us if they knew.' _"The kingdom."_

_The man makes a disgruntled noise, eyebrows furrowed and concerned lines on full display on his forehead. "How so?" He utters, seeming confused. "The guard is there to protect us, the village..." He trails off, as if trying to wrap his head around the words. The child lets him, just picking at skin around his thumb, dragging it up to his mouth to chew it off, an old habit he mother had tried to get him out of, but never could._

_The silence sits for a while, the only noises surrounding them being their breathing and the faint chirps of birds further away, their calls getting louder or quieter as they fly. Until-_

_"I doubt you'll come home with me then, either?" The man speaks up again, hushed but his tone is light, not judgemental, not upset, more-_ curious _than anything else, slightly somber. When the child shakes his head again, he just huffs out a light laugh and stands, making the kid sit up suddenly and blink up at him blarily. "Well then, I'd better teach you to survive, hm?"_

_He holds out a hand, and the child stares for a few seconds, before clasping his hand into the mans much bigger one, allowing him to push him to his feet, wobbly and shaky, still, but feeling much more strong, much more_ alive _than earlier. "Survive?"_

_The man hums, but says no more, easing the child back into the beaming sunlight and towards the towering forest._

~•~•~•~

Harley stares at the concrete brick wall, practically memorizing the way the orange glow of the sunset is absorbed into the grays, and emphasizes the darker shadows in between. He is laying on a cot in an empty cell, the mattress beneath him old and hard, the springs digging into his back as he follows the pattern of dips and curves on the walls and ceiling, trying to keep himself busy as his thoughts swirl in the air, replaying the afternoon over and over.

He doesn't understand it. He had been set in his ways, he had only planned to be at the ceremony for a few moments before heading to the castle; he had the prince in _the palm of his hand_ , and he did _nothing._ He had drank with him, chatted with him, _danced_ with him. He had felt a warmth and a familiarity he hadn't felt in eons, a sense of comfort and ease with the prince, and it _doesn't make sense_.

It still doesn't, even after reviewing the memory a multitude of times for the past few hours- it had to have been hours at this point- since he's been put here and told to wait. Harley couldn't tell, not really, but he had seen the suns ray dip higher and higher through the window, shining from white to yellow to oranges, and the shadows grow darker and darker as the sun seemingly slips into the horizon.

Finally, as the room starts to chill and the light is almost completely gone, the cell shadowed and dim, a loud click and a creak ring out, the metallic door swinging open slowly, revealing two guards stood in front of- of _the king._

Harley sits up abruptly, eyes big because that's actually him. Standing tall, eyes sharp and body posture forward, radiating confidence, and he still looks the _same,_ his beard grown in and his hair coiffed back and a crown on his head where it _doesn't belong_. The man he was going after. The man that, if Harley had gotten his way, would've been _dead_ by now.

He can feel the annoying burning starting grow in his chest, can feel his hands twitch as a bitter acid burns at his throat, as venomous words sit on his tongue, and he longs, longs to spit them out onto the mans face, watch as his flesh blisters and burns from the poison, rips and chars from his flames, watch as he slowly, _slowly_ but surely succumbs to his injuries, staring into Harley's flaming, glowing eyes.

But even Harley isn't stupid enough to attack a king, in his castle, surrounded by his trained knights. So, he glances away, takes a deep breath- allowing the cooling air to push down the venom coating his teeth and put out flames attempting to overcome him- before looking back with a blank, empty face, warily glancing between the three men who stare back at him just the same.

"Good afternoon, your highness." He tips his head in a faux greeting, allowing a smirk to sit on his lips, even if a bitter aftertaste still resides on his tongue.

Harley notes the kings expressions closely, sees his eyebrow raise and his lips twitch before relaxing again, his brown eyes warming slightly. His smirk only widens at that, even as claws grasp at his chest and _squeeze_. "Good afternoon," the man responds, and he _sounds_ the same too, if a little older, warier, the flecks of gray in his beard and hair more noticeable all of a sudden. "We're here to discuss the incident that took place this afternoon."

" _Are_ you?" Harley gasps dramatically, placing a hand to his chest as if he were a dame being told her husband was off to war. "I thought you were coming to discuss the tea I had this morning. Or maybe the salmon I had for lunch."

His voice is dripping with a sarcasm that, while the king seemingly finds amusing, his lips tilting into a slight grin, his guards _do not_ , one of them stepping forward to tower over Harley in an attempt to be menacing, threatening. Harley just looks up at him, and raises an eyebrow.

"Do not speak to your king that way." The guard growls to him, his dark blue almost steel gray eyes narrowing coldly, expression hard, longer black hair tied back into a bun with a few strands escaping and cascading onto his tense shoulders. "Have you no respect?"

'He is _not_ my king', Harley thinks, though he knows better than to say _that_ aloud. Instead, he just quirks his eyebrow higher as the king chimes back in.

"That's alright, Sir Barnes, stand down." The king steps forward, then, just as the guard, Sir Barnes, takes a step back, even as his icy eyes stay locked onto Harleys. Harley doesn't mind, he'll just stare back, at least until the king says something that causes his attention to flicker to him, his expression calm and body relaxed. "I can see, now, why my son was intrigued by you. You have a spirit."

He ignores the way those words make his heart flutter. " _Intruged,_ huh? Am I intriguing, Mr. Stark?"

He expects it this time, laughter bubbling in his chest as the guard steps forward again, mouth open and ready to defend his Kings honor when the man himself waves him back, his eyes now narrowed as well. "As much as I enjoy said spirit, I'm afraid respect runs both ways. I'm sure you'd understand that, right Mr. Keener?"

As much as Harley wishes to keep toying with these men, his gut is telling him that overstepping his boundaries while still in a cage with the _king_ of a kingdom is not a good idea. So, he relents, leaning backwards and relaxing his body, shoulders back, legs easing, head down, open, honest, fainting submission. "Of course, your highness. My apologizes."

The older man levels him with a look, maintaining eye contract for a few moments before nodding in acceptance, and motioning to the other guard, one with lighter blue eyes and shorter blond hair, to shut the door, to ensure no one but them overhears this discussion.

"Now, Mr. Keener." The king mutters as he steps further into the room, finding an old rickety chair and sitting down in it, leaning forward as his guards stay at attention by the door, his darker brown eyes swirling. "Tell me everything that happened today."

Harley let's the words sit in the air for a moment, taking the time to settle his thoughts and take a breath. He obviously can't tell them the truth, that would be suicide, but he _can_ tell them half truths.

"I wasn't planning on going to the celebration," he starts, leaning back against the concrete wall and relaxing his body posture. "I had only found out about it today."

"You only heard of it today?" The other guard interrupts, the metal armor- matted and scratched with obvious use- creaking as he shifts, his sky blue gaze staring him down, looking doubtful. "It was discussed for months."

"I live on the border, between this kingdom and Gold." Harley's head tilts, smirk still firmly in place. "Not much news travels that far." Harley notices the kings hand twitch again in a signal, and the guard lets it go. Interesting. "Either way," He turns back to the king, who's full attention is still on him, making him feel a hint of unease. "As soon as I had found out about the prince's coronation, I knew I had to go. It happens once in a lifetime, you know," He feels the hint of a swirling heat in his chest again, a swelling bitterness, the build of a spark that he tries to put out with another breath, tries to shake away the memories plauging his head. "I couldn't not go. I watched the ceremony, as most of the kingdom did, and then, I went to the celebration. I had only meant to be there for a bit, only to see the sights, pick up a few things..." He pauses, remember the woman's words, her glowing eyes, her piercing stare. He shakes it off as well. "But then, on my way out, I bumped into someone."

"My son," The king murmurs, and Harley nods. "Did you recognize him?"

He pauses. He had, but only because he had forced himself to remember his face, to memorize each feature and detail. But if he hadn't done that, if he had been a random stranger, a random witness to the ceremony... "No," he shakes his head, glancing away for a second before looking back to the king. "No, not right away. He told me he was Benjamin Leeds, and I thought he was truthful." The king seems amused by this, as do the guards, if the huffs of borderline laughter are anything to go by. But he waves at him to continue, so he does. "We talked for a while, just mundane things, before I brought him to a-" Should he talk about the winery? The ale he wanted Peter to drink? That could link back to his ideas, to his plan- "A shop, selling little trinkets, like- necklaces, bracelets, little clay dolls." His hand twitches, and he shifts while clenching it into a fist, hoping the king doesn't notice.

"We stayed there for a while, talking with the shopkeeper, an older woman with two children, who were playing around beside us. She was-" He remembers the intense stare, glowing eyes, and shivers again. "A sweet woman, very kind. Treated us almost as her own. Afterwards, I offered him a dance."

"A dance?" The king tilts his head, tensing slightly. "My son is not a dame."

Its Harley's turn to tilt his head, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. What does that have to do with anything? "Yes? Many people were dancing that night, I figured we could too." The king stares for a few moments more, before nodding at him to continue. Harley still doesn't understand, but chooses not to dwell on it. "And so we danced, for a bit. Not very long, before I noticed the woman." The men lean forward in their seats, then, intriged, their gazes locked on him. "She was mostly covered, wearing a tan wrap around her head, and lips but," Harley tries to force the memory to the front of his mind, his vision blurring as he attempts to focus. "She had darker hair, maybe black or dark brown, and her eyes-" his breath catches, his eyes widening before he smooths out his expression, even as his mind runs rampant because- because her eyes had been a emerald green. Not a normal, regular green, no, a vibrant, neon jade. She was _also_ a mage. A mage who had almost killed the same prince he had been _wanting_ to, _trying_ to. A mage who had almost been successful in the plan that _he_ had _failed_.

"Well?" The first guard, Sir Barnes, said curtly, bringing him back into his reality. He was surrounded by the _king of the Iron Kingdom_ and two of his knights, the men he had wanted to control, to _kill_ , and he had _saved_ the prince from one of his _own_. He couldn't dwell on that now, though, not now, so he pushes past it, trying to remember, trying to _see_ what her normal eye color was, before or after the glow, but he- he can't remember, he didn't _see_ -

"Blue." He spurts out randomly, swallowing down the nausea in his chest. "Her eyes were blue, I think. I didn't get a good look." He moves on quickly, thankful when the men don't push it further. "She had a crossbow, aimed straight for your son's head. I don't know why I pushed him out of the way, sire." He murmurs honestly, dropping his gaze to the ground, feeling very raw and exposed all of a sudden, and trying to rebuild up his walls. "I just acted on instinct."

There's a moment, a breath or two, until a heavy hand pats onto his shoulder, causing him to startle and gaze up at the king with wide eyes, who's face is warm, open, eyes full of appreciation. "Instinct saved his life. And for that, I will always be thankful."

He can see, and _f_ _eel_ the honesty of that statement, and his stomach lurches as a sudden, unexpected rush of guilt and something else floods over him. Something like melancholy, like reminiscing, an ache similar to _loss_. He swallows again, and looks away, just as the king stands and steps towards his guards, only stopping to glance back at him over his shoulder. "That is all for now, Mr. Keener. Thank you for your cooperation. Rest while we discuss."

Harley only nods as the men walk out and lock the door behind them again, lost in his head fogged with memories of warm hazel eyes and vibrant emerald ones.

~•~•~•~

Its much past sunfall when the door to the cell clicks, and reopens. Harley hadn't rested, or slept at all, mind constantly swirling with plans, princes and mages, unsettled and uneasy, unrelenting and not allowing him to even shut his eyes outside of blinks. He doesn't even flinch when the door creaks open, only blinking once more before staring over at the silhouette of the guard, surrounded by light coming from torches hooked onto the walls.

"Come along," the man gruffs, his voice low and rough, but memorable as the same guard who had fought him before, as Sir Barnes himself. As Harley's vision focuses, he can see that the man is mostly unarmed now, only wearing his chest plate and chainarmour beneath, and that his sword was nowhere in sight. His jet black hair had been put down from its bun, and stops just above his shoulders, his features sharp and his gaze as cold as ever.

Harley just gives him a slight smile of amusement, bordering more on entertainment, before he stifles a yawn and stretching his limbs out, sitting up on the hard mattress of the cot and throwing his legs over the side. He exhales as he stands, rolling his shoulders back and shaking his mind of the brutal haze it has been in since their last discussion, blinking to refocus on the here and the now, instead of the past, the what ifs, and the whys.

The soldier doesn't give him a second glance, turning sharply in his feet and almost marching down the hallway, Harley following steadily in his tracks. He tries to retain everything to memory, counting the amount of rooms he passes, marking which side of the hallway they're on, trying to memorize what each room is for if the walkways are open, if there are no doors blocking his sight. They don't walk too far, though, before the knight pushes open a doubled metal door, heavy and refined, protective of whatever is inside. With good reason, he realizes as he walks in and notices that this is what must be the throne room, practically empty outside of long, tall pillars marking the walkway, and three big seats right in the back, two main ones and one off to the side, on the lefthand side.

The biggest of the three is directly in the center of the room, on the back wall, and is made to stand tall, it seems, the back of the throne spiked up like thorns, very similar to the kings crown. On the right, stands the second biggest, a seat much thinner and smoother, compared to the rough edges of the main throne, the back spikes weaving together into a braid pattern. And, on the lefthand side, a clearly newer addition to the line of thrones, the seat simplistic and without much character, looking almost the same as a normal wooden chair, if a normal wooden chair cost more than Harley's entire person. Each of the thrones are made of the same shining material, a heavy iron clearly painstakingly hand crafted to fit each person perfectly, the King, Queen, and Prince, respectful. Just as the kingdoms namesake suggests.

And, _on_ each of the thrones sits the royal family themselves.

King Anthony Stark, with flat, balding, graying hazelnut hair, similar colored eyes, and a wrinkled face. Must be from all the stress of murdering innocents. Beside him, his wife, Queen Virginia Stark, with bright blue eyes and softer, motherly features, her strawberry blond hair falling past her shoulders, and her emerald dress barely concealing the clear bump of her stomach, a hand resting gently on top. And then, Prince Peter Parker Stark himself- or should he call him Benjamin Leeds?- looking eerily similar to his father while sat beside him, with much more youthful, pristine skin, and a rounder shape to his face thanks to his mother. All three are sat tall, strong, _powerful_ , and Harley can't help but feel intimidated, even if he knows he could easily take them all down and burn them into crisps faster than they could cry for help.

After freezing and gawking for one too many moments, he is roughly pushed forward by Sir Barnes, who he turns to glare at before stepping forward timidly, ignore the snort from behind him as he falls lightly to his knees, and crouches down into a bow in front of the line of royalty. He hears the door slam shut behind him, and then, there's silence. So much so that Harley can hear his heartbeat thumping steadily in his chest, a little quicker than normal, and every breath he takes, the inhale of cool air and the exhale of warm gas.

He sits like that for a few beats, until the familiar, too familiar voice of the king commands, "Stand." And he does, shuffling quickly to his feet while continuing to keep his head down, only glancing up at them periodically when he deems it fit to do so. He doesn't notice the king nod to his son, only noticing when the prince stands, and slowly makes his way over, Harley watching as his shining, reflective black boots stop directly in front of him.

"Mr. Keener," the prince greets, and Harley glances up at him just as he nods in acknowledgment, his eyes gleaning in the fire and moonlight. "I apologize for the wait. And, well, everything. My father had wanted to ensure my safety, and the safety of the kingdom, even though I assured him you were of no danger to either."

Harleys stomach twists again at the words, at the utmost _faith_ that the prince seems to have in him, a misplaced trust that makes Harley nauseous, and forces him to glance away for a few seconds before responding. "Of course, your highness. Or, should I call you Mr. Leeds?" The tease feels forced to him, but Peter snorts before chuckling, the sound light, dainty and making Harley's heart stutter in ways that it shouldn't. He ignores the huff of breath from the guards behind him, and the way the queens eyes narrow slightly.

"I apologize for that, too." The man's face is bright, and warm from the sudden burst of amusement, the lighting from the flames around them emphasizes his features, darkening the shadows and brightening his cheekbones and jawline, his eyes looking amber, focused, intense, and making Harley's mouth feel dry.

Harley just shakes his head, on the outside shaking off Peter's apology, on the inside ridding himself of his inappropriate thoughts. "Your safety is of the utmost importance." He chokes out, somehow, and it seemed to be the right thing to say, as Peter lights up even more, and looks back over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow at his parents almost cheekily before turning back to him.

"It is," The prince says, though he seems almost doubtful, as if he isn't sure that he agrees. "Which is actually why we brought you here."

Harley feels his face scrunch up in confusion, as Peter glances back at his father again, who nods once in some semblance of a code, Peter nodding back. When he looks back, the prince looks _nervous_ , shifting of his hands fidgeting with his cape. "Well, uh," He stumbles over his words, his gaze fluttering between Harleys face and _anywhere else_ , before he squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath, and stares him dead on, intense, serious. "I, and my parents, Royalty of the Iron Kingdom, are asking you to join the Royal Guard, specifically as my personal knight, to help protect me and the kingdom from other attempts on my life. If you are willing."

His swirling thoughts freeze, his mind blanking as Harley blinks repeatedly, his jaw dropping slightly. They're offering him a spot on the guard? To be a knight? To protect the man he was _trying to kill?_ How ironic is that? After the internal shock, his mind restarts, thoughts jumbling together as he tries to make sense of it all.

His immediate reaction is to say no, of course it is. How is he supposed to be a guard to the kingdom he _despises?_ How is he supposed to protect it, when he wants to destroy it? Specifically, how is he supposed to want to protect the prince when he's part of the problem? When Harley _hates_ him? Or, is supposed to hate him, he doesn't really know if he truly does anymore, which is a whole other conversation for another day. He should say no, thank them for the offer, go back to his house, regroup and come back to finish what he had started, like he was supposed to, like he had _meant_ to.

But...

He hates that he's even considering this.

_But,_ after seeing the castle from a closer view, and seeing how it works from the inside, it would be near impossible to complete his plan the way he had originally thought of it anyways. There was no way he'd be able to duck under and kill all of the guards and security that the castle has, stationed at each nook and cranny of the hallways and doorways. Nevermind how he would be seen from a mile away by servants, and maidens. No, he wouldn't get near the royal family before being stopped and arrested.

If he were to say yes... well, he would be closer to the royals, to the prince especially. He would be trained in combat, most likely, which could help in his plan (even if he has a bit of training already). He would have an easy pass into the castle, into their quarters without suspicion...

"How would this work?" He finds himself saying after what felt like hours, but what he knows was only a few moments, his voice croaking slightly as his mind reels, as he ignores the aching in his heart and twisting in his gut. It means nothing. "I live on the edge of the territory, it would take me hours to get here. Hours to get back."

He expects Peter to answer him, so when a deeper, richer voice speaks up instead, Harleys head shoots up, watching as the king stands from his seat and approaches. "You would stay here. We have plenty of rooms and quarters for which you could stay in. This way you would stay nearby, in case my son would ever need you, no matter the time."

Harley nods, falling back into his thoughts as the new info settles into his mind, and puts more things into place. So, he would stay at the castle, he wouldn't even need a pass in because he would _live_ here, along the other guards, servants, among the _royal family_ themselves. They would be right in his reach, two antelope in the view of a stalking lion, crouched, focused, ready to pounce. He ignores the way the thoughts make the stone settling in his gut sink even more, and nods again, a new plan slotting into place. He can't believe he's going to do this, but-

He glances back up at them, at the prince, looking to be on the edge of his seat, almost holding his breath as he anticipates Harley's next words with a hopeful gleam in his irises. At the king, who staring over his shoulder and showing no emotion, as if he doesn't mind one way or the other. And, at the queen, who's still seated in her chair, silent but watching with careful eyes and slightly furrowed eyebrows, nervous, cautious. He stares at them all, and utters, voice as strong as he can make it,

"I accept."

~•~•~•~

Harley stands on the edge of the training grounds, feeling the early morning wind nipping at his skin and giving him goosebumps.

After his admission, his acceptance, the remainder of the night had gone as quick as a whirlwind. He had watched the prince light up, and the king regard him with a new light, one of respect almost. He had been dismissed and had bowed to the two men, and the woman behind them, who had finally responded back with a nod and a look of approval, a light tilt to her lips. He had been ushered out of the room by two guards, Sir Barnes and his friend, who he had realized after was Sir Rogers, the knight who had held him down after the attack. He was going to have to get to know them, Harley had realized, they would be working together most of the time, after all. He had asked if Sir Barnes was the knight of the queen, but he hadn't responded, only responding when he had to, begrudgingly. He already didn't like Sir Barnes.

He was brought to his own quarters, afterwards, in the same area as the rest of the guard, but closer to the prince, too. His room was humongous, almost the size of his entire house back at the border, with a giant bed covered in neutral colored linings and a beige colored curtain to match. There were nightstands, one with a big mirror attached, and a huge walk in closet. All empty, but he had been told they would be filled by clothing fit to him, for him in the next few days by the servants. Speaking of, he had met the main servant who would be helping him, by the name of Benjamin Parker, who had assured him immediately that he could call him Ben. The man was stoic, quiet, a watcher instead of a talker, with graying dusty brown hair and focused dark brown almost black eyes. It was clear he was a worker, by his calloused fingertips and rough skin, but that he loved his job, and worked hard at it, something that Harley immensely respected. He had shown Harley around his room, had watched him settle in, before telling him to get for the early morning tomorrow. He had smirked, then, and Harley had wondered what was so funny, but had done as he was told.

And now, he was here, in the courtyard of the castle. It was a giant field, almost, mowed and kept up so the grass barely tickled the ankle of his boot, surrounded by two lines of trees on either side, planted in a row, organized and beautiful in its symmetry. The line of trees went on for miles and miles, only to stop right before a lake in the distance, circular and rippled with the wind. Harley couldn't see how far the pond went before the light fog in the air cut off his vision, but he assumes it was huge, just like everything else in this place.

In front of him, in the field, there were multiple different types of training stations. There were targets placed right near the end, for archery practice, and dummies that looked like potato sacks placed everywhere around him, for hand to hand combat he assumed. And right dead center in the middle of the field were multiple sections for sword fighting practice, with rows and rows of different weapons placed on a rack beside the battlefields. Mainly swords, but also hammers, whips, maces, knives and daggers.

Its mostly empty in the field today, only one or two people around and they seem like servants, helping to clean and organize the chaos. Except for one, a woman stood right next to the racks of weapons, head held high and eyes focused solely on _him._

Her longer red hair is pushed back into a tight bun, and her lighter blue eyes are sharp, focused, and her face is stern, her lips pursed and features looking more and more annoyed the longer Harley stands still, the longer Harley _stares_. She's wearing knights armour, a darker gray than the others, but still scuffed up, used and worn, the once shiny material matted over time, and a thicker looking chainmail underneath it, encompassing her entire body. She raises an eyebrow at him, looking impatient, and only then does Harley kick into gear, forcing his legs to unfreeze and move down towards the training field where the woman is stood.

"Good morning," Her voice is softer than he expected it to be from her hard exterior, but there's an undertone of strength and knowledge to it unlike most women Harley has met. She doesn't give him time to respond before she continues, her eyes narrowing. "The prince has offered you a spot on the guard, offered to allow you to protect him if he so needed it. I'm here to see if you can handle it."

Her harsh words make Harley take back anything he said about her softness, and causes something to stir in his chest, his face scrunching up slightly. "The king offered it to me, too."

"No," She interupts, starting to walk around him, _circling him_ like a vulture scanning out its pray. "The king gave his son what he wanted, as he usually does. You're only here as a byproduct of the prince's kindness and nothing else."

He feels the flame start to rise, to burn at his lungs and heart as he clenches his fists, and watches the woman walk around him continuously. "I saved his life-"

"By fluke. You were in the right place, at the right time." While behind him, she suddenly ducks down and hit the back of his knee, causing him to buckle and crash to the ground roughly on his back, staring up at the woman glaring back with disapproval. "Do you deserve to be here, Mr. Keener? Because I don't believe you do."

The fire roars, blood rushing in his ears and he doesnt think before he lunges, attempting to hook his leg around hers and drag her down with him. But she quickly sidesteps as if it was expected, and presses a heavy foot to his stomach, pushing all of the air out of his lungs and leaving him breathless. She snorts, then, now looking disinterested. "Wow. You really are as pathetic as Buck said you were."

He feels flames licking at his fingers, but he forces it away, knowing that no matter how pissed off he was at this woman, who's name he still didn't know, he couldn't expose himself. Not fighting against one of the guard, in the middle of the courtyard in the castle full of people who hate his kind. No, not now, not for a while. He thinks, gasps in a small amount of air due to the steady pressure still on his chest, his abdomen, and thinks. He forces himself to focus, noticing that shes slightly distracted, glancing elsewhere for the moment as if she can't even be bothered, noticing that her foot is slightly slipping to the left on him, and _moves._

He jerks away to the right, forcing her foot to slip completely off and throwing her off balance. While she's off kilter, he kicks at her legs again, and this time it works, knocking her backwards and causing her to fall onto her side. When she falls, he stands, and steps as far away from her as he can quickly, getting out of her reach before she can grab him and force him back to the ground. He pants as the dust settles, and forces himself to look his problem head on as the woman sits up and stares at him again, not glaring anymore, but still slightly narrowed, swirling with annoyance, but also with a hint of, not approval, but _acceptance._

After a moment of silence, she stands and brushes herself off. "Rule number 1, for any type of fight," She glances back at him, with a sudden upwards tilt to her lips. "Always watch your opponent." He gives her a faint grin back, knowing he at least gained her respect, and knowing she definitely has his, but still eyes her warily, especially when she smile fades and her hard expression returns. "Now," She turns, suddenly, and grabs a ssemingly random sword out of the lines of them on the rack, and holds it out to him. "Let's get the boring shit out of the way."

He stares at the weapon for a bit, outstretched to him, before taking it careful in his hands- its lighter than he expected- before putting his full attention onto his teacher, as she begins on pinpointing everything wrong with his grip and his stance.

This continues on for a while, with the woman teaching him the proper posture and hold for the sword was given- they would try multiple different swords, she had told him, to test which length and weight would work best for him- and had practiced a few basic swings and jabs, stationary first, and then with movement, stepping back and forth, then left to right, then both, and a mix. It was hours, the fog breaking under the suns rays as it rose in the sky and the slight dew covering the grass evaporating, before the Kings voice sounds from behind them while he's mid shaky swing, sudden and unexpected.

"I say thats plenty for now, say, Lady Romanov?" Harley, thrown off guard by the king sudden appears, swings the sword too low and it misses his teachers sword completely, causing her to raise an eyebrow at him before easing off, glancing off into the distance behind him, at the main royal himself.

"Perhaps. It seems to be midday." She tilts her head up to the sky, just as the king comes into his view, a slight limp to his walk that causes Harley to look twice, his eyebrows furrowing.

"It is," the king responds, stopping just beside the two of them before nodding once in his direction, a greeting. Harley nods back. "Break for lunch."

The woman- Lady Romanov he has now learned- looks back down and tilts her head, not in agreement but in resignation. "Fine," She gives Harley a _look,_ then, eyes still as fierce and piercing as ever. "Don't forget what I taught you, especially rule 1 and 2. Be back here in a two hours, to go over a few more things before we end for the day."

He nods, and bows, maintaining eye contract as does. "Thank you." He murmurs, before nodding again to the king, who raises an eyebrow, a twinkle of surprise in his eye as he smiles, and Harley doesn't bother to think what that means before he turns heel. He plans to walk off, to go change and attempt to find a kitchen, or eating area, when he notices a signature burgundy cape rounding the corner, disappearing from his view soon after. He pauses for a moment, wondering what the prince was doing, before Harley turned to leave. Maybe he had come with his father, and had chose not to approach? Either way, Harley ignores his curiosity itching to find out more about the mind and mystery of the prince of the Iron Kingdom, putting his feet to work and making his way to his new quarters, focusing on his growling stomach and aching muscles.

~•~•~•~

Harley shakes his head as he walks out of his room, shutting the smaller, shinier wooden door behind him quietly, unwilling to awake anyone who would be sleeping. It was still early in his eyes; however, the sun had set a while ago, and the moon was now in full force, a crescent in the sky mostly blocked by heavy clouds which had rolled in after midday, holding a heavy darkness over the land. The only reason Harley could see was due to the torches places strategically on the stone walls throughout the passages of the castle.

Even though his muscles and limbs were aching from overuse, from holding different positions and for pacing back and forth for hours, Harley wasn't tired enough for sleep just yet, his mind whirling as he steps away from his door, and starts down the hallway.

He ignores the stone of guilt that has seemingly settled to stay in his gut, and tries to focus his thoughts enough to make this nightly wanders into something that could help him in the future. Most of the doors he passes are now shut, closed as the inhabitants of the kingdom settle in for the night, but occasionally, he'll come across one that is open, and glance in as he passes to catalog what is inside, what the room is for, potentially _who_ it belongs to.

At first, its mostly empty, unpersonalized rooms, for newer servants, guards, or guests, he would assume. But, he also stumbles onto rooms with life, one with a bigger man, stripping himself of his boots who seem too small for his feet, and one with faint music escaping from the crack in the doorway, and he catches a glimpse of two people swaying, dancing, giggling softly to themselves. He also comes across rooms with no doors, big and grand in different ways, for different uses. A ballroom, with a giant dance floor and a few unused tables, looking older, dusty, as if it hasn't been used in a while. A large room with one long table, and around eight chairs to surround it, for meetings and business, Harley guesses. He passes the eating area he had gone to earlier, with a multitude of different tables that was now eerily silent, a stark contrast to the hustle and bustle he had experienced earlier that day, the room full of life and laughter as a multitude of people sat together to talk, eat and relax after the mornings events.

He tries to retain where everything is, tries to mark it to memory and create a map of the castle in his head, but the next room he walks past has him stopping in his tracks, mentally and physically.

The room was huge, but that wasn't anything new, and was filled to the brim with _books_. Each wall seemed to be a bookshelf, and each shelf was filled, only a break or two every once in a while, when a book was clearly missing. He leans closer to the door, and notices that there's also a second level to the room, the walls rising higher than he thought possible and the ceiling arching at the top, covered in paintings and art that must've taken days, even months to complete. He looks back to the ground, and notices that the room is mostly empty, the few tables in the room clear and clean, shining in the firelight, but in the corner of the room, with a lantern by his side and surrounded by different books, some open and others closed, is the Prince of the Iron Kingdom himself. He was raptured by whatever he was reading, his fluttering eyes looking auburn in the light of the flame, and his normally slicked back hair is puffed out, curly and unruly, all over the place. He is wearing what is clearly bed clothing, a plain dark green velvet looking material that covers both his chest and his legs, and he looks so _normal_ , so _human_ that Harley almost feels uneasy, ashamed of finding him in this moment, one of clear calm, relaxation, of privacy that he would've turned and left him alone had the burning curiosity from earlier not returned with a vengeance, consuming his thoughts and itching under his skin until he couldn't ignore it anymore.

He takes a deep breath, and decides to approach, to ease his churning mind full of nosiness and his racing heart, hoping that this will make his weird feelings go away. If only he knew that this would make things that much worse.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh this is one of, if not my favorite, chapters that I've written so far for this fic. Its just... so good imo, and it definitely has my favorite scene in it hehe
> 
> I hope you guys like it as much as I do! :D 💗💗💗
> 
> Also slight warning, Peter has some not so pg-13 thoughts throughout this chapter. Its not too detailed, and they are only thoughts (for now), but just thought I'd let ya know ❤

Armour shining in the sunlight, reflecting, twisting as it moves.

"...eter..."

A sword gleaming as it swings back and forth, blocking each attack effortlessly.

"..Peter.."

A heaving chest, hair sticking to skin as small gasps of air escape his lips, heavy, heated, _powerful_ -

" _Peter!_ "

Peter jolts, rushing back to reality as he sits up in his seat, flushing when he notices all of the eyes focused on him, mostly amused, but some irritated. "Welcome back to the land of the living, your highness." Sir Rhodes tips his head with a cheeky grin and a chuckle that echoes around the table, making Peter's face grow into a ripe tomato. Even his father looks to him with mirth from beside him, though once he notices Peter's stare, he turns his own into one of scolding, even as his lip still twitches.

He coughs and tries to pull himself back together, shaking away his inconsiderate, insulting, revolting thoughts to try and refocus on the present, on the now. "I apologize, Sir, please continue."

Sir Rhodes raises an eyebrow, but does as he's told, his eyes still sparkling but his voice dropping back into its usual commanding tone, low and grim. " _As I say saying,_ the kingdom of Adamantium has increased their defenses and their military. This is as we feared. I'm afraid that because of this, more mages will infiltrate into our kingdom as a refuge, and will make homes in our village. We must put a stop to this, before..."

Peter leans back in his chair, mentally groaning as he slowly zones out again. He knows he should be listening, that he should _care_ what his guard- especially what the _head_ of the guard- had to say, but he just couldn't find it in himself. It was the same old thing every time, mages coming into their kingdom and "what they could do to stop it". He doesn't understand it, honestly. His father had told him that mages were dangerous, they caused more harm than good and had to be stopped, but aren't they just _humans like them?_ Sure, they had powers, but they were still alive, breathing, they were still _life_ , just like they all were, just like _Peter_ was, so why were they treated so harshly? Why were they hurt, or killed? Why did they "need to be stopped" _so badly?_

Peter couldn't wrap his head around it, so he stopped trying to, focusing instead on the thing his mind has been wandering to since this morning, since _yesterday_ really, even as he knows, _knows_ that he shouldn't.

_Harley Keener._

The mystery that has intrigued Peter since he first banged into him last night, that has swarmed his mind and consumed his thoughts. He can't even remember what he used to think of, before yesterday, before the crash, and the attack, before the tall blond had came into his life. He knew its bad, the way he continues to think of the boy that he knows nothing about, not really. Knows he shouldn't care, outside of a professional respect and courtesy, similar to the way Father and Sir Rhodes are, or Mother and Lady Romanov. But he _can't help it_ , there's something so unbelievably _intreguing_ about the man. He's like an enigma, to Peter, a puzzle or an equation, something that needs to be put together, solved, discovered. He longs to find out more about the newest knight, more about his personality, more about his charm, and wit, more about his intellect. More about his training, how far he's going, more about his body, his face, his lips-

No, _no._ He feels a dread settle in his gut. This is the exact thing that he _should not_ be thinking, the exact reason why Ned had told him they were alike, that Harley was like Ned's wife, Betty, and that Peter seemed- seemed-

Seemed nothing. Because it wasn't true. Peter did not feel the same way Ned did when he saw his dame. Peter did not feel the same sparks, and nagging curiosity that had pushed Ned to start talking to the woman. He did not feel the heat and the longing under his skin, like Ned had told him he did occasionally when Betty danced or sung for him. He did not feel the same. He _could not_ feel the same.

But, if Harley was a woman, a dame like Betty was... he knows he wouldn't be thinking twice. Knows he probably would've took his chance on her already, attempted to woo her into a dance, or a date, would've pressed a kiss to her knuckles and watched her cheeks grow rosey, watched her baby blue eyes glow and her golden locks shimmer in the sunlight as they moved and swayed, before pulling her closer, and leaning up to push their lips together. He would kiss her and hold her, would love and cherish her, and he _aches_ , because he knows he wasn't thinking of a woman, then, knows he was thinking of _Harley's_ baby blue eyes, that shone and sparkled in the sunlight of the evening. Knows he was thinking of _his_ golden locks, his ryestalk blond hair that curled out at the ends and swayed in the wind as they moved together. Knows he was thinking of _his_ thinner lips, of pulling _him_ close, and pulling _him_ down, leaning up into _him_ and kissing _him_ and-

A hand slams down on the table right in front of him, and Peter jumps again.

"By God himself, son," Peter winces at his fathers tone, sharp and harsh, no sign of the earlier amusement to be found. "You _must_ pay attention, this is important for the safety of the kingdom!"

"My apologizes, father, but you cannot expect me to stay focused when we always discuss the same thing." Peter implores, looking dead into his father's darkening eyes as he rolls his own. "Mages this and mages that, always about _mages._ "

Peter knows he hit a nerve, knows better than to push his _father_ \- the one who fought in a _war_ against the mages- about this but he couldn't stop the words from tumbling out, couldn't help the bitter satisfaction at the twisting of his features, the burning anger in his eyes. "Peter," Even his voice is low, gravely in his irritation. "Mages are-"

"'Our worst enemy', I _know._ You've only told me a hundred thousand times, father."

" _Peter-_ " He goes to spit something at him, his body language tense and face full of fury- and Peter feels a little bad about it, sure, but he also feels off kilter, all out of sorts by his own sickening thoughts- before his body slumps, and all of the fight rushes out of him with a sign as he leans back and waves a hand at him. "If you do not wish to pay attention, then you are excused."

Peters cheeks warm in his embarassment, and suddenly he's aware of each set of eyes on him, aware of the six other people in the room besides him and his father, and bristles defensively, his tone hushed, scolded. "Father-"

" _Now_ , Peter."

His tone is final, and Peter huffs out a breath as he stands, knowing he won't change his fathers mind now that he's made it up. He glances around the time quickly, ignoring Sir Barnes, Sir Wilson and Sir Barton's cheeky looks, Sir Rogers and Sir Rhodes' disappointed one, and Lady Romanov's blank glare, hinted with the faintest amusement, before he turns and walks out of the room, the door creaking shut loudly behind him and drowning out the now faint mocking chuckles he could hear from behind him. He stiffens his jaw, then, keeping his head and shoulders high until he makes his way to his quarters. Only when the door to his chambers shut behind him, does he let them fall, and let the utter embarassment and shame wash over him, letting out a loud groan into the hands covering his face as he leans against the closed door.

He hears a faint, lighter laughter from within his room, and jumps _again_ , bracing himself before relaxing once he sees its just his auntie May, glancing at him with eyes twinkling with a mirth and concern as she folds up towels and toiletries. "Rough meeting?"

He sighs loudly, running his hand down his face as he pushes off the door and makes his way over to her, already shrugging off the too long cape around his shoulders and placing the all too heavy crown off of his head and onto his bureau. "More like utterly _boring_." She finishes folding her last towel, then, and places a hand to her hip, giving him a _look_. Before she can even speak, he whines like a child, "Not you too, auntie, please. I've been scolded enough for an eternity." while flopping onto the bed, laying on his back, shifting as his too pretentious clothing brushes uncomfortably against him and reminds him of what he was _thinking_ before all of this happened, making him flush for an entirely different reason and plant a foot onto his bed, his knee bend so his auntie doesn't notice and ask uncomfortable questions, a shock of shame running deep in his veins.

She huffs out another laugh, shaking her head, unlocking her hip as she grabs her folded towers and makes her way to his ensuite, calling over her shoulder. "Fine, I won't. You know better anyways."

"I do." He repeats, unfocused, his mind already elsewhere again, already back to thinking of Harley and ignoring the sinking guilt in his gut. "Hey, May?" He hears her hum in response. "When did you know you were in love with Uncle Ben?"

Part of him doesnt know why he's asking, doesn't want to know if what Ned said was right, but another part, the apparently more vocal part of him _longs_ , ney, _needs_ to know if its true. Needs to know if he... if he...

If his auntie notices the heaviness to his words, she doesn't make it known, answering easily and simply as she puts away the towers, "When he asked me on a picnic. We had been sending letters for a while at this point, but I hadn't expected him to show up at the stable- where I used to work before your father came along, you know- with a giant basket in one hand, and a bunch of handpicked flowers in the other." She sighs happily, and when Peter tilts his head backwards to look at her, he can tell she's smiling wide, even if it looks upside down to him. "It was so thoughtful, so perfect for me, for _us_ , and it was like I just _knew._ " Peter nods, unable to respond verbally as his mind swirls with the new information he had just received, trying to pick it apart and form it into an idea, a plan, or _something,_ anything to keep his mind off of where it keeps wanting to wander, where it shouldn't, cant- "Who is she?"

"Huh?" Peter freezes, feeling ice cold panic rush down his veins. "Nobody."

His auntie just snorts, and he can hear her light footsteps make their way back towards the bed he's laying on, before it lowers under her weight, and a hand runs through his hair, easing and soothing him easily, even as he continues to internally panic. "I can read you like a book, Peter, you know that." She murmurs softly, and he _does_ know that, which is _why_ he's freaking out. She can't know, she _cant_ \- "Who's the dame that caught your eye last night, hm?"

"How-" He swallows, trying to keep his voice steady as he feels his hand tremble, his heart race unsteady. "How do you know it was last night?"

"You take me for a fool, nephew?" She cocks an eyebrow at him, and he quickly reassures her, hands flailing.

"No! N-no, of course not, I just-" he lowers his hands, and glances away, feels tears burning at his eyes for no reason, blinks them away. "I don't want to talk of it, auntie, please."

"My Petey's caught the love bug, and you expect me to just let it go?" She teases, running her hand through his hair again, but she doesn't get it, he can't tell her, he _can't_. She'll hate him, be disgusted in him, tell father and mother and-

"Please?" He pleads, begs, his voice wavering, and her hand pauses, then, pauses as she seems to understand the severity, the despair in Peter's tone, seems to see the tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

"Okay, baby," she murmurs softly, continuing her soothing motions again as Peter blinks some more, ignoring as he wipes away the stray liquid that escaped. "I'm sorry if I pushed too much."

He shakes his head, glancing at the ceiling and refusing, _refusing_ to look her in the eye, heavy with shame. "I'm sorry." He whispers back, the words meaning more than she will ever know. _'I'm sorry for not being able to tell you. I'm sorry for being the way that I am. I'm sorry that I-'_

Because as much as he wishes he could keep pretending, as much as he longs to keep living in ignorance and bliss, he can only ignore the signs for so long. Ignore the way his feelings match perfectly with Ned's, and now, with May's. Ignore the way his mind leans towards the boy, ignore his heart stuttering everytime he's around, beating quicker, harder, reaching out to him, ignore how he _longs_ , aches with how much he _wants_. There's only so long he can ignore how wrong he truly is, yearning for a man he shouldn't even look twice at, a man he knows nothing about, a man he met _yesterday_. And yet it felt like they knew each other forever, like _Peter_ had known him forever.

He takes a deep breath, and sits up, his aunties hand falling from his hair as he does, his legs dangling off of the bed. "I'm gonna head to the library." He needs to get his mind off of this, off of his backwards mind, his twisted emotions.

May only nods, ignoring how late it is knowing better than to try and stop him, something she had learned from helping with him his entire life. "At least get into bed wear." She whispers as she stands, waving to the folded pair of silk clothing on his dresser beside his bed. He nods in acknowledgment and she gives him one last, simple, sad smile before walking out of the room to give him some space, quietly easing the door shut behind herself.

Peter blows out a low breath, putting his head into his hands for a few moments and rubbing at his temples before following his aunties words, standing and changing out of his heavy, day clothes into lighter, softer night ones, a darker almost navy blue in color. Once he pulls the shirt over his head and the pants over his hips, he moves to the other side of the room, where an older, rusting metal lantern sits, beside a pack of matches and an worn down candle, about midway through his lifespan, the stick of wax melted and charred from multiple uses. He quickly grabs a matchstick, and sparks a flame, lighting the wick of the candle before gently placing it into the glass casing, shutting the hatch as it illuminates his slowly dimming room. He grabs the top of the lantern, the bronze metal cool to the touch, and carefully eases it off of the table, holding it out in front of him as he leaves his room and softly pads his way down the hallway, taking a few turns before pushing open a heavier door and entering the castle library.

He ignores the grandness of the room, the towering stands of book after book- it was nothing he hadnt seen a hundred times before- and makes his way to the corner, where a smaller table sits mostly out of view. There's a few texts still there, from a few nights ago, and he barely bothers to settle the lantern down before he's opening the first one he sees to the bookmarked page, a book about astrology he thinks, desperate for a distraction.

And it works, for a while, his mind appeased with growing knowledge, with learning about different constellations, about the coordination between them at the planets rotation, the planets position around the sun and then- when he opens the book below it about physics- about the theory of cosmic inflation, and of gravity, his mind finally _finally_ distracted with something other than the man he had met, when suddenly, as if even thinking his name can summon him, like a demon, the Devil Himself,

"What are you doing?"

Peter straightens up quickly, staring wide eyed at the center of his swirling thoughts since yesterday, the object of his ruinous affections, Harley Keener himself, and he immediately loses his breath, knocked out of him from just the sheer beauty of the man stood a few feet in front of him, with a tilted head and a sharp grin.

The sun has long since set at this point, casting the whole room into shadows outside of the wick still burning in his lantern, the flames flickering light emphasizing the ridges and sharp edges of the mans face, of his features, of his cheekbones and jawline, while also flattering him, too, his skin looking smooth, perfect like porcelain, his hair flattened and shining, curly and unruly, darkened to an almost brown and still wet from _something_ , from either sweat or a bath (Peter didn't know which image he preferred more), his blue eyes almost _glowing_ in the heat of the flame, shining from blue to green to orange, looking like the sea during a sunset, calm, ethereal. Harley Keener is _gorgeous,_ and he has to remind himself to breathe, to glance away and control himself because he shouldn't be thinking this way, shouldn't be so blantently staring like he was just moments before.

"I'm sorry, your highness." When he looks back, he notices Harley's eyebrow has raised, his lips tilted up higher, and flushes, knowing he was caught. Thankfully, Harley doesn't bring it up, continuing as if it had never happened. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"Its alright," he croaks out, his voice weaker than expected before he coughs. Yeah, that's what it was, fear, he thinks, ignoring the burning in his groin and the yearning in his chest. Just a _fright_. "Uhm, I'm reading science books." He ashamed to say he had to _check_ what he was reading only moments before, his mind already reflooded with sinuous thoughts of the dirty blond man stood above him and his deep, heavy blue gaze.

"Reading science books?" He questions, repeats, soft and full of curiosity, eyes round as he steps closer and stares down at the pages with something like wonder.

Peter swallows, and shakes himself internally, pushing a smile onto his face. "Yeah, I'm reading about astronomy right now. You know, stars and constellations and stuff, specifically about Virgo." He points to the drawing of the constellation on the page, before pursing his lips, narrowing his eyes in consideration. "Actually, it should be in the sky right about now. If not now, than soon."

There's a moment, a breath, before, "What is a constellation?" Harley murmurs, his voice small, slow as he stutters the unfamiliar word, the question throwing Peter for a loop before he realizes, remembers that some people don't have the chance, the privilege of having as many books, as much knowledge at their fingertips as Peter does.

His lips eases onto a soft, real smile, his voice gentle, "Its a group of stars, in a specific pattern. You see how Virgo has their stars like this?" Harley nods, brushing his fingers against the ink drawing that Peter is still pointing at. "Well, all constellations are like this, except the stars are in different formations, different places." Another nod, and the man is tracing the image with his fingers, trailing the lines that connect all of the stars together, and Peter cant help but to melt at the childlike innocence, and wonder in Harley's eyes, his expression open and honest in the glow of the firelight. "You can read it if you want to," He whispers, pushing the book closer to the man, who flinches back slightly, his gaze flickering from the book to Peter and back, before his face darkens, his voice low and ashamed.

"I... I can't."

At first, Peter thinks he means he _shouldnt_ , but then, as he watches the man squint at the words, his eyes fluttering across the letters over and over without recognition, he realizes that Harley truly _can't read._ He's _illiterate_. While it is not uncommon for most people to not know many words, or to not be able to _write_ , it is pretty rare to be completely illiterate like Harley seems to be, to not know how to read any words. Most parents, mothers mostly, teach their children at the minimum the most common words, their village and kingdom name, words like "sale" or "food" for signs, numbers and costs, to know how much things are. To not know _anything,_ especially at Harley's age...

"Did your parents not teach you any?" He makes sure he sounds light, only curious, but Harley still looks saddened, his face shadowed by a sudden darkness that makes Peter's chest ache.

He just shakes his head, though, only utters a few words before going back to looking, to silence. "My ma tried, before she left."

Peter waits a few moments, before attempting a small, "Where did she go?". He only gets a shrug in response, Harley's nose wrinkling and his expression turning sour, bitter. He overstepped, he realizes, the topic personal, heavy, so he eases off, dragging the book back towards him. "Well, I can read it to you?" Harley gazes flickers up to him in surprise, then, and Peter flushes. "If- if you want me to, of course."

The other man ponders that for a second, his irises flickering from eye to eye before he glances back down at the book, gently easing into the chair opposite to Peter before murmuring softly, "Yeah, please."

Peter gives him a smile, then, gentle and full of a multitude of emotions, before placing his finger on the page, clearing his throat, and beginning to read. And, as he does, reading through the entire chapter on astronomy at Harleys request, glancing up every once in a while to see the childlike wonder on the other mans face as he glances out of the window beside them and up at the stars, he feels his heart swell, and feels himself falling more and more.

~•~•~•~

"Duck!" Harley cried, and Peter does, bowing quickly before the knight places his shield in front of them both, successfully blocking them from the barricade of arrows shot at them, at _him_ specifically.

Peter glances behind him, noticing his father in the distance, watching with percing, judgemental eyes, face still blank, and he huffs, glancing back at the shield and the knight protecting him, his hand itching and twitching, longing for the heavy feeling of cool metal in his palm.

He knows what this training exercise is for, knows that Harley is training as a knight to protect him, and therefore, needs to train as such, but Peter doesn't like being a damsel in distress, even if its only for the moment. He knows how to fight, how to protect himself, he doesn't need Harley protecting him at every turn even if his father thinks so.

He sees a shadow from behind him, and turns just in time to see metal shining towards him, before being deflected and blocked by the big wooden shield Harley has attached to his arm, having swung it around from their initial attack to defend Peter's blind spot, the darker gray of the enemy giving away Lady Romanov as Harley grits his teeth and plants his feet, the woman pushing down on her sword with her body weight, making the wood creak and groan. The blond glances to Peter, then, gives him a _look_ and nods his head slightly to the left, and Peter tilts his head up in acknowledgment, a small movement thats barely noticeable, before they put their plan into motion, Peter jumping to their left just as harley pushes up on his shield, trying to get the woman off balance.

They miscalculated, however, Lady Romanov noticing Peters small movement and acting accordingly, throwing herself back before Harleys push and swinging down to the left, her sword hitting the ground just beside Peter's head, causing his breath to hick and his eyes to widen, noticeable as he stares into his reflection in the shining metal of the sword.

"Aaand you're dead." She smirks, her gray eyes shining and red hair flowing in the wind, not having blown a sweat, before pulling her sword out of the ground and swinging it around in her hand. "Rule number 4: Never leave the person you're trying to protect."

"I didn't know how else to get out of that." Harley pants, wiping away the sweat dripping off of his forehead with the back of his hand, his blond curls sticking and unruly. Peter glances away, swallowing to ignore the sudden dryness in his throat, and zones out a bit as Lady Romanov starts to explain other tactics to him, staring down the courtyard to the lake.

It was only a few days after Harley had moved in that Lady Romanov had approached his father and asked if Peter could train with them. Peter and his father had both been shocked, wondering how Harley had made so much progress in such few days, but the woman had just shrugged and said he was ready (and, when Peter asked Harley later on, as they passed in other on their way to their quarters, the man had just told him he had some training in the past, before moving along, leaving Peter even more confused, and curious, than before).

So, here they were, around four days after Harley had moved into the castle, into the kingdom as a whole, training in the courtyard under the scalding early summer sun, on one of the warmest days they've had so far, practicing. Peter had assumed that when Lady Romanov said Harley was ready, that he'd be good at fighting, but still a little wobbly on his feet, still getting the hang of things- he had only been training for three days, after all- but that wasn't the case at all. Harley was fighting and deflecting back like a pro, as if he had been sword fighting for most of his life. He still had his stutters, his moments, he wasn't _perfect,_ but he was doing much better than Peter- than anyone, really, had expected. It was impressive. And way too attractive to Peter, but that wasn't the point.

He had basically accepted his feelings for the blond man by now, knowing that as wrong and as sinful as he was, he couldn't get rid of the butterflies fluttering his stomach whenever the other man was around, couldn't get rid of the stutter of his heart or the heat pooling in his cheeks, in his gut as he watched him fight, dance around the courtyard with confidence and stride.

He just decided that he will ignore it. Eventually it'll go away, right? Ned had told him of his crushes when they were young and foolish, on the other servants of the castle, and those had gone away. This will too, right? Hopefully. He prays to God that it will. He won't know what to do if it doesn't.

"Your highness?"

"Hm?" Peters head jerks towards the call, Lady Romanov and Harley's forms blinking back into focus as his wandering mind focuses back on the situation at hand, on Harley's amused expression and Natasha's playful glare, hinted with warning.

"Since your back in orbit," she teases, voice light before hardening again. "We're gonna try another exercise." She nods at him to stand, and he does, huffing and brushing off his pants as he makes his way over to the two of them with matching shining armor, one looking much more pristine, newer than the other. Harley gives him a smirk and a nudge, once Peter is close enough, and Peter rolls his eyes, shoving him back lightly with his shoulder.

They had gotten closer, too, the two of them. After that night in the library, Harley had practically begged Peter to read to him more often, seemingly entralled with the abundance of knowledge he was learning, and who was Peter to say no? (He doesn't think he _could_ say no, honestly, when Harley looked at him like that, all wide eyed and innocent, open and honest in a way he seemingly rarely is). Every night since, they had met up at the library at varying times- because of Peter's busy schedule shadowing his father, and because of Harley's training- and Peter has read a multitude of different books to him, some non fiction, about physics and space and the sun, and others fiction, about Rapunzel, trapped in her tower, about dragons and other mythical creatures. And lately, Harley has been determined to teach himself to read, Peter placing the book between them as he reads, Harley repeating and pointing to each word as Peter says them. Its innocent, and raw, and each night Peter feels himself falling deeper, falling more for the knight.

He was learning more about him, too, throughout their nights. While Harley did enjoy the books about creatures, and fairy tales, he always leaned towards the science books Peter had pulled, always begging Peter to teach him more about space, and the stars, about the sun and the moon, seemed intrigued with space in a way even Peter couldn't understand, but he didn't deter him, always doing as he wished. After reading about human dynamics, about a mothers and fathers role in a child's life, Harley has whispered to him, soft low and sad, about how he didn't fit into the usual family dynamic. About how his mother, or his _ma,_ as he likes to say (something that makes Peter melt unexpectedly every time he hears it) left when he was younger, and never came back. About how his father had never been apart of his life, how he didn't even know who he was. How he had wondered, when he came into the village for the ceremony, if he had passed his father on the street, and didn't even know it. Peter had wanted to press, to ask more, because how could Harley have survived on the border of the territories without any family? Without anybody to protect him? But then Harley had asked him to continue, had looked so downtrodden that he couldn't squeeze it out of him.

Harley learned more about him, too. About how he wasn't always a prince, and had lived in the village himself before his father had helped the kingdom win the war, and became king. How he sometimes felt like Rupunzel himself, remember the freedoms of living in the village and being a normal kid, and longing to be able to relive them sometimes (He had noticed Harley acting a bit off, after that- after he had mentioned the war- stiffening up and looking confused, overwhelmed, almost angry. Peter hadn't understood, but it had soon washed off his features, so he hasn't thought much of it). How he didn't really have a normal family dynamic either, though in the opposite way to Harley. How his mother and father had been busy helping the kingdom, being king and queen, how he had been raised by his servants, who he called Auntie May and Uncle Ben, how he had made best friends with Ned, one of the servants children who then became a servant himself, and how the guard was basically also his family when they were off duty, acting like older siblings, other aunts and uncles to him, even if he never called them that. Harley had listened intently with open ears and a sharp focus that had burned Peter from the inside out (though Peter could notice the faint swirl of longing, of envy in his eyes), before they had continued along in the book, learning about siblings of which neither of them had, yet.

And so, they were closer, forming a bond underneath the rows of books and the whisps of the firelight of his candle that extended out to the hallways, to the castle, to the courtyard, to here and to now in a way that Peter never expected, but throughly enjoys, even if it adds to the twisting in his stomach and the ache of _wrong_ in his chest.

"Okay!" Lady Romanov's call shakes him out of his mind and back into the real world as she grabs another sword off of the rack and holds it out to him. _Yes, finally._ "Since the prince so obviously wanted to participate more last round, _this_ round he'll be front and center..." Peter grabs the weapon, playing with the weight and making sure its right as the woman turns back towards Harley with a large, predatory grin. "As your enemy."

Peter's head shoots up at that, eyes widening at the same time as Harley's does. "Isn't- isn't that a little counterproductive, madam?" Harley wonders, but she just shakes her head.

"Right now, you have no faith in him- _Let me finish._ " She interupts as Harley opens his mouth to speak, waiting until he wisely shuts it again before continuing. "You don't trust that he'll be able to defend himself in the midst of a battle, which is why you were reluctant to leave his side until need be."

"You _s_ _aid_ not to leave his side." He sounds confused now, irritated and frustrated.

Lady Romanov just stares, as stoic and calm as always. "I did." She agrees, nodding once. "And as much as you can, you should stay by his side. Earlier, you could, but you made a false move, ergo my correction. However, there _will_ be moments where you get separated, and you won't be able to protect him. You need to trust that he will be able to defend himself, and the only way you will allow yourself to do that and _accept_ that is if you see his strength for yourself."

The other man ponders that for a moment, as Peter braces himself with the sword, and prepares himself mentally for whats to come. Because even the _idea_ of attack, of potentially nicking and _hurting_ Harley makes ice water rush through Peter's veins, and makes his heart drop. He can't let that show, though, he must act strong, brave, a worthy opponent to the knight in training, to prove his worth as an enemy, as a prince, as the _future king._

Harley steps forward, then, eyes focused and intense, locked onto Peter in a way that makes his breathing heavy before he even moves, before he's even _done anything_. He holds up his sword in a teasing gesture, quirking an eyebrow and grinning wide. "Ready?"

Peter snorts, and readies his body, squaring his shoulders and spreading his legs, one leg slightly behind the other and his arms held close to his body. "Whenever you are."

There's a pause, a few heart beats before he sees Harley tense, and braces, right as the blond lunges. Peter sees his attack plan from a mile away, though, sees him driving his sword low, to try and get Peter to loose his grip to potentially drop his weapon. Peter pivots on his dug in foot, swerving to the left to try and get Harley off balance, off kilter so he can hit him with the hilt of his sword and call it a fight. He shouldn't have counted Harley out so quick.

The other man turns, suddenly, and Peter realizes a moment too late that it was a sike out, Harley swinging his sword higher than expected and slashing at Peter's torso harshly, knocking the air out of him. Thank _G_ _od_ for dull practice swords, or else he'd be severely wounded, if not dead. Peter gasps, but tries to continue the fight, tries not to let it get to his head as he knees upwards, hitting the other man full force in the abdomen and hearing the wind gust out of his mouth, forced out of his lungs by the blow that sends him reeling.

They both take a step back then, to catch their breath, staring each other down and circling one another, calculating what their next move will be, what place they will strike, Harley's features furrowed and Peter fiddling with the wrapping on his sword. _Peter_ takes initiative this time, planning a similar strategy to Harley's last time, aiming high and swinging his sword above his head while planning to hit low. It surprisingly works, Harley raising his sword to deflect the blow while leaving his lower body unguarded, giving Peter ample opportunity to land a hard kick to Harley's knee and send him buckling to the ground. Randomly and suddenly, though, Harley throws his entire body forward, going into a roll and crashing into Peter, sending him toppling to the ground too, his sword slipping from his grip and clanging to the ground beside him. He lets out an oof as he crashes, and tries to stand back up, to at least kneel, rolling over and trying to get Harley below him but Harley gets it first, a hand grasping at his chest plate just below his neck as he raises his sword to deal the "final" blow.

Luckily, Peter sees a hole in Harley's plan, and slips his arm from underneath the blonds grip and slaps him across the face wincing as guilt fills his chest for a second before he uses the moment of shock to his advantage, forcing their bodies around until Peter is straddling the taller man, his knees on either side of his hips and holding both his arms down, face inches from Harley's own. In the momentum, Peter didn't notice how close they had gotten, but now, as Harleys struggles for a second before giving up, giving in, _submitting_ , he realizes pretty quick how much their bodies are brushing, how _suggestive_ of a position they're in right now, and his breath stutters in his chest, his eyes widening and his face burning. He doesn't think Harley notices, until Peter notices his face brightening too and- and as he looks deep into his gaze, like two lakes on a windless day, a mirror reflection and not a ripple in sight, Harley's suddenly _changes_ , turning into a bright, _bright_ neon blue for a split second, so full of passionate and heat and _longing_ that it sends Peter reeling, makes his head spin and he goes to lean down, goes to give into his urges-

When somebody coughs, loud and abruptly, and the moment is ruined. Peter scrambles off of Harley, who sits up as soon as he's off, looking so confused and overwhelmed, and Peter honestly can't blame him because he's feeling the exact same way, mixed with a whole flock of other feelings similar to birds flying to the south for the winter. He whips his head around towards where he heard the cough, the continuous coughing to find his father coughing into his elbow, Lady Romanov at his side rubbing at his back and whispering into his ear, and any relief that the prince could've felt towards _'oh thank God they weren't caught'_ is immediately trampled by worry and concern.

"Father?" He calls as he stands, wiping down his clothes, now wrinkled and full of dirt, but the king waves him off, his fit ceasing as he takes large inhales of air, rubbing at his chest just below his heart.

"It's fine, son, don't worry." His father gives him a smile, shaky but true, and Peter can't help but believe him even with his nerves. "Continue your battle."

Peter goes to speak, but Lady Romanov beats him to it, his gaze going back to the two men now stood on the battlefield. "I think they were finished anyways, sire." Her arm drops as the king settles again, before she straightens her back, going back into stern teaching mode. "Do you have faith in your server now, Mr. Keener?"

Her gaze flickers to behind Peter, and he refuses to look back at the other man behind him, doesn't know what he'll do if he even so much as glances at Harley, even as he responds, voice slightly hoarse but still steady, strong, "Yes, madam, I do."

"Good," She looks up at the sky for a moment, before looking back to the king, and then back to them. "Thats enough for the day. Go rest and eat, we'll continue tomorrow alone, Mr. Keener."

He doesn't know if Harley responds or not, doesn't take the chance to look back and see, taking his leave as soon as possible, feeling jittery and full of energy all of a sudden, full of unexpected nerves and guilt and anxiousness. He races away, towards his quarters, speed walks his way across the castle until he can shut his door rapidly behind him, panting in the warmer, dusty air, feeling his lung being squeezed as he tries to regain his breath and slow down his racing heart, his churning mind.

But no matter what he does, the moment replays over and over in his head. Their quick movements, their fiery dance of swings and smacks, before they tumbled to the ground and he felt the spark of intensity, the flame of passion and yearning, saw the _burning_ in Harley's eyes, felt it mirrored in his own body. And God, he would've given into it if his father hadn't stopped him. He would've leaning in closer, and pressed their lips together, would've brought them as close together as possible, would have let their souls intertwine and become one-

" _Shit!_ " Peter spits out weakly, curling his hand into a fist and hitting it against the door once, hard, before he slides down until he's sat on the cold stone floor, staring up at the arched ceiling with blurring vision. He doesn't know how he let it get this bad. He thought it would go away, that he could just- _let it go_. But now, his mind is filled with fiery gazes and burning touches, and his heart is sinking with the heavy realization of something he's known for a while, but refused to admit. Still wants refuse to admit, but _can't_ anymore.

He is enamored by the one person he shouldnt be, by a _man_ he can't have.

Peter Stark is _in love_ with Harley Keener.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're at the halfway point folks! Annnd I come bearing badish news. I'm putting the updates on pause, just temporarily, so I can finish writing the rest of the chapters. And because I'm feeling somewhat demotivated, and personal shit is going on and blah. Hopefully it won't be too too long of a pause, but I can't promise anything. Im sorry. I hope you all understand.
> 
> And if you're reading this in the future, once all of the chapters are up, well. Hi I love you <3
> 
> An-e-ways, all of that aside, I hope you all enjoy!!! 💗💗💗
> 
> Warning, this chapter is Quite Heavy, and deals with many heavier topics including war, death (from the war/only hinted, not mcd) and discussions of homophobia. Take it easy, be safe, I love you all ❤❤

_Inhale. Exhale._

_His hands tremble, but he forces the mix of nerves and excitement down, trying as best as he can to keep the crossbow steady._

_Inhale._

_His eyes narrow, to get better focus on his target. Steadies. His finger fiddles with the string, getting a good grip as he pulls it back slightly tighter-_

_Exhale._

Pop!

_The birds around them fly up in alarm, chirping and calling to each other as they flap away from the unforeseen danger, but one. One falls, through the branches of the tree and thumps onto the ground._

_He blinks. He did it. He_ actually did it.

_A heavy hand clasps onto his shoulder, and the child doesn't even flinch. "Good job, squirt!" The man shakes his shoulder lightly, sending the kid into a giggle fit, a wide grin pushing up his cheeks and making them burn as he glances up at the pride glowing on the mans face. "See? You're already a natural!"_

_Its been a few days, since the man had returned and shaken him awake, given him grapes. Ever since the man had told him he'd help him "survive", he's been teaching him different things. Mainly, how to work a contraption called a "bow." A large stick, bent slightly with string on the end, that you use to shoot arrows into... things._

_The man had forced him to practice on a tree, first, to "get his aim" up. Whatever that meant._

_But the kid had done good, learned quickly within the last few days, so he decided to give him the real test today. The thing he had been building up to._ Hunting _._

_Another way to get food, meat specifically, without going to the village to buy it. Taking it straight from the source._

"Your mother probably did this for you," _The man had told him while explaining what it was._ "Though it is usually the role of the father, of the men in the family."

_Another squeeze breaks him out of his thoughts. "Go get it, and I'll teach you how to skin it."_

_The child looks back to his catch with narrowed eyes, before starting on his way. "Skin it?"_

_"Well, pluck it first." He corrects, scratching as his beard as the boy finds the now dead bird, laying between the tree roots. "It is a pheasant."_

_The child huffs as he picks the bird- the pheasant up, realizing it is almost the length of him, and slowly starting to trail back to the man, who has a soft sort of smile on his face that he's gotten quite a lot these past few days. The kid can't seem to wrap his head around it, the emotions based it in, outside of the faint glimmer of pride._

_They walk in an easy silence to a patch of land more flat, before plopping the bird down and sitting beside it, the man immediately starting in on his explanation of the way they pick the feathers off one by one, leaving the bird naked before tying a rope around its feet and hanging it up in the house to wait until it's feeding time (the man giving instructions on how to cut it as he goes along). It takes hours, and its meticulous work, but the man constantly jokes and tells stories of his boy, and his wife, the child listening and laughing with full ears, even telling stories of his own with him and his ma, making the time fly by._

_Its mid afternoon by the time they finish, the bird hanging by the entryway of the home, and the child feels a pang of sadness, all of a sudden, knowing the man is going to go. He always does, by sundown, and the child knows why, he has to be back with his family by nightfall, but... still. It's_ nice, _having him here, having someone to talk to and listen, someone to joke with and laugh. Its like-_

 _Its like having ma around all over again. Its_ nice _. He doesn't want him to leave, even if he knows its selfish._

_Surprisingly, though, as if the man could read his thoughts, he utters randomly, "Go find a stick, just long enough for you to hold."_

_The childs face scrunches up as he glances at the man incredulously. "What?" He giggles, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head. "Why?"_

_The man just rolls his eyes playfully and pushes him forward. "Just do it, boy."_

_The kid just chuckles and shakes him off, wondering into the woods for a few steps until he finds a good enough stick, firm and only slightly sharp, to bring back to the man who is now also carrying a stick, slightly larger than his. The child tilts his head again, bewildered, but the man explains quickly, "I'm teaching you self defense."_

_"Self defense?"_

_"Mhm," The man hums, holding his stick into the air, tip pointed towards the child. "To protect yourself from any danger, or strangers that may come near."_

_The child snorts, grinning cheekily. "What, like you?"_

_Instead of teasing back like expected, the man grimly responds, "_ Yes. _You were lucky when you found me, I won't hurt you. In the future, you may not be as fortunate." He taps the child's stick with his own. "Copy my posture." He orders, and the kid does, lifting his stick the same way the man has. "Imagine these sticks are swords, and I am the enemy. When someone attacks your sword-" He taps the stick again, lightly, with no power or force behind it. "You attack back." The child copies his tap, and the man smiles. "Good. Again." The man taps, and he taps back. They do this a few times, their sticks clashing back and forth, again and again, the force behind the taps getting stronger and stronger, until the childs grip slips and the next tap sends his stick crashing to the ground._

_"I'm sorry," The child spews, reaching down to grab his "sword" again, as the man shakes his head._

_"No no, you did good, kid. You did great." The child raises his stick again, ready to start over, when he sees the man in deep thought, eyebrows furrow and stick down, staring deeply at the kid. In confusion, he lowers his stick too, just as the man murmurs, "What's your name, bud?"_

_The child tilts his head. "Name?"_

_"Yeah, I can't keep calling you kid forever." He jokes, a faint tilt to his lips, but his eyes are serious, and swirling._

_With anyone else, he wouldn't have told them. With this man? The kid barely thinks twice._

_"My name is Harley. Harley Keener."_

~•~•~•~

Harley watches himself wipe his arms down with the now dirty water in the water bowl again and again, unfocused as his mind wanders and trying to reconfigure his scattered thoughts, his mind only wanting to focus on one thing, on one _person_.

He shouldn't be thinking about it. He shouldn't be as _overwhelmed_ with it as much as he is, and yet it floods his mind and acts as a layer of film over his eyes, repeating over and over. The way they had fought and danced, the way their swords had clashed. The way Peter had furrowed his brows in concentration, the confidence in his shoulders, in his movements, the precision of his strikes and deflections. The way he had been so focused, so zeroed in on Harley, similar to the way Harley had been with _him_ , the world disappearing from the background as he watched the brunet almost moving in slow motion, his lean but firm muscles rippling with each swing, the slight uptilt to his lips, his blazing eyes similar to the sun shining down onto his shimmering skin, showing the sweat dripping from his temple, the hair sticking to his forehead, the strength he had used to flip Harley over, to hold him down and press in close.

Harley shakes his head with a faint noise of frustration, pushing his hand back down into the water to get started on his other arm, so he could maybe finish getting cleaned up at some point.

He shouldn't be _feeling_ like this. Shouldn't be yearning, shouldnt feel the urges, the tugs that pull him into Peter's radius, into his solar system as if he was his sun, something Harley had learned about during their nights spent together in the library that he also _shouldn't be doing._ He was supposed to be here only to get the training, he should be _focusing_ on his training. He should be honing his skills, and pushing himself to be better and stronger so that he could take the royalty down when the time comes, and rule the kingdom like he was _supposed_ to.

Like he had _planned_ to. After his trainer had waved him off for the rest of the day, Harley had wondered the halls, coming across a long wall full of paintings, full of tainted, one sided _history_. The murals showed stories of the war, the paintings swirling mages into monsters, demons fed only on the blood of the humans, an _abomination_ to human kind, and it made Harley's blood _boil_ , made flames lick at his fingertips as he wanted to turn each and every framed artwork to ash, knowing how _wrong_ their version of history was. Knowing that mages were peaceful at first, begging for their food, safety, for their _lives_ to the humans who only slaughtered them in return. Knowing they only turned to violence once they had no other choice, when the king at the time had created a battalion whose sole goal was to destroy mage kind, no matter the cost. Knowing that the humans had almost _succeeded_ , massacring most of the mages in the village and beyond, only a few human passing or half bloods surviving, his mother being one of them. Knowing they had flipped the story on its head to paint themselves as the light, as the _saviors_ of the tale, naming the war as the beginning of the "age of freedom" and turning their kind, _his_ kind into nameless scraps, into creatures lower than animals in the eyes of the village, of the humans as a whole, when all his kind wanted was peace.

Knowing he had the chance to turn the tides, to reclaim their history and give the kingdom back to its rightful owners, who had lived here in harmony with the humans all those hundreds of years ago.

And yet, all of his plans have somehow been pushed to the back of his mind, replaced instead by charcoal eyes and a bright white smile, a sharp jawline and treebark curls, by a lithe body and surprising strength and- _Fuck_ , Harley is so screwed.

He doesn't know when the thoughts had turned from knowledgeable and friendly, kind, to _pining._ When he had gone from the Prince to _Peter_ , and had become so so much more than his title, than his blood. When Harley had gone from longing to _murder_ him, to longing to hold him close, and protect him from whatever could possibly hurt him.

He doesn't know when he had gone from hating Peter Stark to _loving_ him.

It doesn't matter though, he thinks as he gathers a pool of the liquid in his palms and splashes it up at his face. Even if he feels this way about the man, he knows the other won't reciprocate. Why would he? He's known Harley for a few days, and all Harley's done is be harsh, and witty, snarky in his responses outside of the library, where his wall had fallen under gentle smiles and soft whispered words. Why would the prince feel _anything_ but friendliness, if that at all, towards him? Harley was his knight, his _servant,_ why would Peter ever feel anything like _love_ for him?

And even if he did, even in the slight chance that Peter returned his bubbling affections, Harley wouldn't be able to accept. _Couldn't_ , knowing he was _human_ , knowing he would _hate_ , and try to _kill_ Harley if he knew the truth. Just the same as the rest of them.

He scoops another pool of water and splashes his face once more time, wiping off the dust and dirt from his features, his pores before grabbing the soft towelette placed beside him and wiping off his wet or damp skin, hearing the faint creaking of a door from the connection room as he does.

He freezes, before folding and placing the used towelette back down beside the bowl, straightening his back and stepping behind him quietly so he can glance through the crack in the door, so he can check to make sure there's no enemies coming to attack him, to _rob_ him-

He spots the semi familiar dusty brown hair and worn down posture of his servant, Ben, and lets out a long puff of air, shaking away his thoughts. This isn't his home back in the woods, where he stayed by his lonesome for most of the time and had to be on guard. This is the castle of the _Iron Kingdom_ , surrounded by guards and knights. Hell, he was becoming a knight _himself,_ he is safe. He should feel safe. Old habits die hard.

He looks down at his barely visible reflection in the muddy water, to ensure that he looks some semblance of put together before he opens the bathing room door, putting himself into the view of the servant, who glances up for a second before continuing his task, smoothing out the newly cleaned sheets on his bed and folding them to look perfect, something that Harley will never understand because he's going to sleep in it again, why must it look perfect everyday beforehand?

"Good afternoon," Ben nods to him, his eyes looking gray and serious from Harley's position. "Finished your training?"

Harley repeats the greeting, stepping further into the room before realizing he doesn't really know what to do with himself, just pressing into a corner, leaning against the wall and watching the older man's soothing, rhythmic motions. "Yes, for the day." He responds quietly, his cheeks warming at the faint reminder of the duel. "The king told Lady Romanov not to push me too hard, so she's cut our training a bit shorter today."

Ben just hums in response, now fluffing and fixing the pillows placed near the top of the overtly big bed. "From what I've heard, you've been doing well?"

"Well enough, I suppose." Harley shrugs, as his flush reaches his ear tips. "I'm not the best yet though."

Ben finally looks up at him, then, a twinkle of mirth in his gaze. "Well, nobody ever is. Especially not four days in."

Harley lets out a light chuckle, trying to ignore the bitter memories threatening to overcome his mind. "I guess so."

They sit in a comfortable silence as Ben finishes his task, Harley just watching him and breathing, trying to stay in the moment instead of disappearing back into his mind, and then, the older man is turning and giving the blond a particular look, one of _knowing_ that immediately puts him on edge, makes him _uneasy_. "I watched a bit of your training, earlier." Ben starts, leaning his hip against the now almost immaculate bed, his arms crossing and his features sharp, his lips tilted downwards slightly. Harley just hums in acknowledgment, in question, his shoulders subconsciously raising as he feels the need to protect himself against _whatever_ is coming up next. "You and the prince are getting quite close."

Harley feels his nose twitch, a slight wince on his face for a second before he pushes it away back into neutrality, ignoring the way his heart picks up beats. "Of course. He is my leige, my duty."

"And that's all he is, Mr. Keener?" The dark eyes seem to stare right into Harley's soul, eerily similar to the way Peter's can sometimes, right past his walls and deflections and right into his core. He feels _seen,_ then, fragile, and it only makes his hackles rise up higher, longing to defend himself against an invisible threat.

Harley contemplates his words, before muttering out a harsh, "Where are you going with this, Mr. Parker?" Even as he has a sickening, sinking feeling in his gut that tells him _exactly_ where the other man is going.

From the way Ben grimaces, glancing away before looking back with a heavy look, full of a multitude of feelings Harley can't even begin to decipher, the blond knows he's right. "I think you know," He murmurs, and Harley does. He does, but he doesn't say it, _refuses_ to admit it, clenching his jaw and looking away, towards the stone brick walls, focusing on each nook and cranny, each dip and crack. "You look at him the way I look at my wife. The way she looks at me."

"So?" Harley spits out, then, still refusing to glance up at the man, feeling open in a way he despises. "Nothing will come of it."

"I'm afraid something will." His face furrows at that, but before he can say anything in response, the dusty brunette is continuing, "I'm not one to confine love. I won't be the one to tell you to quit, to stop. I will only heed you a warning." Harley can't help but to look up, then, into the dark browns looking through him, looking _at_ him, the _real_ him. "You are naive, Harley, innocent in the ways of the kingdom, of society as a whole. You do not understand the rules and regulations our people have deemed necessary for their survival, for their safety." Ben lets out a low sigh, then, looking saddened, almost defeated. "They will glance upon your relation and see witchcraft. See the devil manipulating you, controlling you and attempting to spread his twisted agenda. They will arrest you, hold you in the jails for hours, and then sentence you to your death."

Harley is reeling, bewildered at the new information swirling in the air around them. "But _why?"_

Ben just smiles, deep and melancholic. "Because they dont understand it. You and me, and a few others, we might see it as what it is, at its core. Love, wild and untamable, a wildfire, uncontrollable in its flames. But to them? They see _different_ , they see unusual, outcast, _strange_ , and they become _afraid_. Why are people afraid of the dark?" He asks, suddenly, tilting his head. "Or of the ocean? The forest? Our species, we don't like what we can't control, what we can't understand. So, we attempt _to_ control it, in whatever way we can. And somehow, in this case, that has become life or death."

"Thats _bullshit_ ," Harley croaks out, his neck aching from the tension building in his shoulders, in his spine. "That-"

"It is," The older man nods, once, agreeing in a way that makes Harley's mind whirl. "But it is the way things are, right now. And, as I have said, I am not going to stop you from your feelings, Mr. Keener, but I will say this," Harley freezes at the serious, intense look in Ben's eyes, his breath catching as his speaks, voice grim, urgent, _warning,_ "The kingdom needs a future king."

Harley swallows, sensing, _feeling_ the weight of the undertones of that statement, the rock placed upon his shoulders, unknowing of how to respond. Thankfully, the older man doesn't seem to be looking for a response, as gives Harley one last look before he walks away, into his closet, looking for more things to clean or put away. Harley just stares at the empty space in front of him, as his mind catches up with all of the information it was given only moments before, and then he's moving, out of his room and down the hall, stepping past one, two, three, four doors mindlessly before stepping into the fifth one, blinking up at the walls of novels, the room looking bigger and fuller in the sunlight compared to the way he usually sees it, at night and by candlelight.

He doesn't know when the room- a library, Peter had told him- had turned into a place of safety, of security and comfort, away from the world and its multitude of problems, but it had, and he tries to feel grounded by it, breathing in deeply the signature scent of old paper and dusty ink. He sees a few others in the room, something else that was unusual compared to his nightly trips, but he doesn't let it stuper him, his feet taking him over to his- their usual table, sitting in the chair he always does and grabbing at one of the many books still stacked to the side, still bookmarked and kept to the pages they had stopped at the night before. He opens it, and forces himself to attempt to unscramble the letters and words in front of him, trying to pass the time until the prince appears, even as he knows it'll be a long while yet.

He feels an immense guilt at his longing, now, Ben's words repeating in his head over and over even as he tries to replace them with the ink spilt on the pages in front of him.

~•~•~•~

"You're distracted." Harley flinches back into focus at the sharp words, the blurred image of the princes disproved scowl turning crystal clear, making Harley wince again. Only then does it fall into a worried frown, Peter's eyebrows shifting to furrow. "Is everything alright?"

Harley takes a deep breath, ignoring the pang in his heart as he forces a smile onto his face and nods once, twice. Peter doesn't seem to buy it, though, if the deepening frown says anything, and Harley itches to tell him, to explain what Ben had said, to say that he shouldn't be here right now, to make an excuse and head off to bed like he's _supposed_ to, like he _should_. "I'm alright." He says instead, the lie slipping through his teeth and coating his tongue in a bitter, sickening taste.

Peter gives him another look, one of worry, concern that just makes harley feel _worse_ , but doesn't push it anymore, going back to pointing at the words along the page and reading aloud, quieter than normal but still there, still audible to Harley in the constant chatter of the room.

Peter had shown up earlier than Harley had expected, excusing that he had gotten out of his meetings earlier, similar to how Harley's training had got cut short, the king not needing Peter's assistance and shadow for the rest of the night. Peter had looked away while saying it, though, and Harley wondered if he was telling the truth, but knew better than to push when he wasn't one for the truth, either. He had immediately jumped back into their usual sessions, of reading and helping Harley to learn, to grow, expand his knowledge and his literacy, yet Harley couldn't seem to do the same, couldn't seem to want to ask questions and be as honest as he usually was, his servants words cycling over and over in his mind. He tells himself he shouldn't worry about it, that it means nothing, that he should focus on the here and the now, that _it won't matter because nothing will happen anyways_ , but Harley can't seem to shake it off, the wave of ice cold fear that had washed over him and dripped from his fingertips, he couldn't seem to get rid of knife digging into his chest and carving out a hole in his heart, his lungs as he watched Peter speak, his lips mouthing every word, every syllable, tongue flicking and clicking against his teeth, still looking so ethereal and beautiful in the rays of the sun that it takes Harley's breath away, and makes his lung burn, his heart ache, his stomach clench.

He blinks again, and notices that Peter has stopped again, just staring at him with an eyebrow raised and a line in his brow, looking irritated and concerned and _still so perfect_ that Harley can't help but to sigh and blurt out a quick, "I'm sorry, your highness."

Peter's face immediately scrunches up, and he glances away as he murmurs, voice low, "Don't- call me that." Before he looks towards him again, leaning back in his seat, straightening, and his voice goes back to normal, strengthens as he adds, continues, "And it _will_ be okay, once you tell me what's wrong."

Harley tilts his head, ignoring the first part for the moment as he looks towards the books for the first time all evening, shaking his head and ignoring the itch of words clawing up his throat. "It's nothing, Peter."

"It doesn't _seem_ like nothing." He can see Peter move out of the corner of his eye, the prince squinting before sitting up ramrod straight, and then standing, Harley turning to give him a confused look. "Come on," The brunet tilts his head back, grinning. "Clearly, we aren't going to get very far here tonight. Let's go for a walk."

He shouldn't. He should excuse himself. He should go to his quarters, and _stay there._

He stands, laughing lightly, shakily to escape the waves of _emotions_ threatening to swallow him whole and the blood starting to drip at his feet. "A walk?"

Peter tilts his head, clearly thinking as his eyes sparkle, twinkle in the yellow rays of the sun, turning the darker brown into an auburn similar to the leaves that fall from trees, just before the winter. "Or, a ride. If you're up for managing horses."

Harley shivers involuntarily, swallowing slightly. "A walk will be fine."

Peter stops, then, and gives him a look, dawning with an amused realization. "Are you _afraid_ of horses?"

The blond remembers faintly the tales his ma would tell of her childhood, of the battle where her parents were killed, when the battalion rode through the crowds of mages, a stampede of hooves that murdered many. "A little." He breaths out lowly, somehow feeling ashamed, a slight hint of anger rising at the clear mirth on Peter's face from his validated fear.

Peter clearly tries to swallow down his amusement, though, coughing once before nodding, giving Harley a small smile that quivers at the edges. "Okay, no horses then."

"Thank you," He murmurs once they've left the library, the busseling hallways, stepping out into the slightly chilled breeze and starting their walk across the courtyard near the forest, the sun starting to hit the edges of the trees, showing its descent down the horizon.

He stares as Peter's curls sway in the wind, as the light orange rays strike Peter's face and make him look angelic, as if God send him down from Heaven himself. "It's nothing." The prince shrugs it off before giving the blond an apologetic look, his eyes softening and face flushing slightly as he glances over at Harley for some reason. "I apologize for teasing. I know fears tend to be... uncontrollable." The wording reminds him of his servants words earlier, about love and its uncontrollable, untamable flames, and he shakes the echos away, ignores the hole growing bigger, gaping in his chest. Before he can answer, though, the prince is grabbing his arm and hissing out a quick, quiet, "Come on," before dragging him into the forest, rushing into the trees and past the bushes until they're out of sight.

Harley stumbles as he gets pushed along until they finally stop, and he jerks his arm back, glancing around on alert, his hand immediately going to the hilt of his sword. "Are there enemies? Whats happening?"

"No, no," Peter snorts gently, lightly, a soft hand grabbing at the fabric of his sleeve, and pulling his hand away from his sword with ease. "No enemies, we're okay." His words are soft, murmured, intimate in a way that sends his heart racing, thumping heavily in his chest. "Just needed nobody to see us leaving."

"Leaving?" Harley tilts his head, staring down at the prince who is now casted in the heavy shadows of the trees, only spots of light seaping through, half of his face casted in darkness and the other half glowing, his clay eyes sparkling, teasing.

"On our walk, remember?" He steps back, turns away, towards the trees, and its then that Harley notices the faint indents in the rock, the dirt, the small pathway created leading further into the forest, into the sunlit distance.

Harley takes a deep breath, allowing the fresh breeze to open up his lungs and make the gaping wound smaller before he chuckles airly. "When you said walk, I figured around the courtyard, seeing as we aren't supposed to leave the castle."

Harley gives him a look, and Peter just rolls his eyes. "And where's the fun in that, Mr. Keener?" He sends back a grin, then, so handsome and perfect, and Harley's heart warbles.

Harley also notices that Peter never let go of his sleeve, and is now using it to gently pull him along towards the destination as they walk. Harley smiles at the sight, innocent, and feels a wave of warmth, of adoration, pretending not to notice as the princes hand slowly grips lower and lower until their hands are brushing, until Peter's hand softly grasps his and his ear tips become a deep shade of red, Harley's face a similar color if the harsh burning means anything, as the beast in his mind silences even though the man knows it should be screaming at him, should be ravishing him, should be swallowing him whole.

They walk for a few more minutes in a comfortable, warm silence, stepping over logs and deep rooted branches, the only sounds being the crunching of leaves and grass, of pinecones and seeds under their feet and the slight huff of breaths, the quiet whistle of the breeze slipping through vines and petals, through blades and trunks. Harley just tries to retain this moment, this _feeling_ all to memory, the faint chill on the tip of his nose, the heavy heat on his palm, the light tug of his arm, and blanket of comfort, of safety wrapped all over his body. The sights, the collapsed trees leaning against others, some hollowed and used as burrows for rabbits and other small mammals living in their ecosystem, some still strong, still alive and growing, digging its roots in deeper and twisting its branches out further, adapting to its new situation to survive, to live, to _thrive._ _"They use the light to_ photosynthesize _,"_ Peter had told him two nights ago, _"which becomes a sort of food to the leaves and nuts, to the flowers growing off of its branches. And because of this photosynthesis, the tree creates oxygen, which is a chemical in the air that helps us breathe, and helps us survive."_

The brunet, the prince in question was still just barely in front of him, looking to the ground at where he is stepping, only glancing up to check where they were going, if they were still on track. The setting sunlight casts a heavy, long shadow behind him, and _on_ him, highlighting his cheekbones and jawline, his deeper set eyes and rounder nose, the shine of scars on his cheek and the side of his jaw, from old training sessions or battles that Harley has not heard of. He is _breathtaking_ now, here, in this view, in this moment, so much so that Harley can't help but to ignore the words still running in his head, forget the mumblings and warnings of the older man.

And when they finally step out of the trees, Harley loses all thoughts entirely. They're stood on a cliff edge, with stone and rocks beneath their feet, with a full view of the everlasting forest, of the sun slowly slipping into the horizon, of the skies now painting in oranges, yellows, pinks and purples, and yet, the most beautiful sight is at his side, holding his hand, gazing off into the distance with a clear look of awe across his features. Harley can't seem to look away, can't even enjoy the scenic view in comparison to the one he has in front of him, at this moment.

Not even when the prince turns to glance at him, goes to say _something_ with the brightest look on his face, that seems to die on his tongue as he notices _whatever_ look on is on Harley's face. Not even when his face scrunches up in confusion in such a sweet, adorable way that sends Harley reeling, that knocks whatever remaining breath left in him out of him. Not even when he opens his mouth again to say a soft, bewildered, "Harley?"

He doesn't know what pushes him to do it. The lack of thoughts and filter remaining in the bliss of the moment, the tug in his gut that always seems to exist whenever Peter is around, the overwhelming amount of emotions, of warmth, of _love_ that he feels in that very second. Whatever it is, it makes him tip forward, taking a single step forward and leaning down, already so close together, makes Peter gasp for a split second, eyes widening before their lips connect and Harley's are shutting, the grip on their connected hands tightening for a moment, for a breath. Their lips move together once, before the gaping wound in Harleys chest opens up again with a roar, ripping open gashes with his sharp claws and throwing Harley back into the harsh, unforgiving grips of their reality and he forces himself to pull away, to push himself away, revolted in himself in a way that makes him want to gag, makes him want to spit up vile.

They're both gasping, panting, and Harley feels sick, Ben's words revolving around in his head, slipping down his neck, his spine and squeezing around his ribs, making him silently wheeze for breaths as he waits, waits, waits for the prince to tell him off, to strip him of his title, to banish him away, never to return, and even the thought sends a dagger through his ribcage, through his heart and makes him inhale sharply again. It shouldn't matter, he knows it shouldn't, this wasn't apart of his plan, _none of this was apart of his plan,_ but it does, now, Peter's opinion does matter to him now, almost too much, _way_ too much, and Harley doesnt know what to do with himself, doesn't know what to say to justify his case, to make Peter forget any of this had ever happened, before he can push the knife further into his chest and kill him on the spot.

But then, the prince is stepping forward slowly, and settling down on a rock, seeming content to just... continue to watch the sunset. As if nothing had even happened.

Harley blinks at the now empty spot where Peter stood only moments before, gaping, spinning, before he turns to face the prince, the view, the sunset, and forces out a hoarse, "Your highness, I-"

"What did I say about that?" Peter murmurs, just above a whisper, quiet but _shaky_ , and when his head turns to look back at him, his smile is quivering, too, looking fake, pressed onto his face. "Don't call me formal titles, please."

Harley just swallows, trying to keep up with the current conversation- or the lack there of- and just nods dumbly, not knowing how to respond but feeling like he has to, feeling like he has to say something, has to apologize, "Peter-"

The other man shakes his head, then, his facade crumbling quickly and his smile dropping, his eyes hollowing as he pleads again, empty, shuttering, fragile, " _Please?_ "

And somehow, just with a begging look, a simple shaken word, Harley understands. Understands the way Peter doesn't want to, or _can't_ talk about it. Understands the longing for them to just... sit, and watch the sunset. Understands the urge to pretend it didn't exist, it never happened. He ignores the pain ebbing at that thought, but he gets it, he understands it, and nods once, again, before moving his legs to step forward, to walk till he's beside the brunet, until he's sitting on a rock right next to the one of the prince, before he's just watching the sunset, too, trying to avoid the guilt still clawing at his chest and the words on a loop in his mind.

They sit, and try to forget, try to ignore, until the sun goes down, and washes the valley in darkness.

~•~•~•~

It was the middle of the night when Harley was awoken by the door creaking open, quick and sudden, and forced him into acting on instinct, grabbing the sword which he kept by his bed and holding it up to defend himself against whoever had come to attack him in his most vulnerable state.

But, once he blinks up a few times at the older man in front of him, he slowly lowers the weapon, even if he's still on guard by the look in the servants eyes. Nervous. _Urgent._ "Ben?"

"We need you to watch over the prince." Is all he says, voice gravel, making Harley stand and stumble for his work clothes.

"Has something happened?" He throws the shirt over his head and clips on his belt just as the servant gives him a _look,_ one of fear, of gravity that makes Harley stop in his tracks, knowing this was serious.

Ben sighs low, quiet, before uttering, "The queen has gone into labor prematurely... it is unlikely that she will survive."

**Author's Note:**

> Xoxoxo 
> 
> Come say hi to me on tumblr! @shadedrose01 :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [and we can light a match and burn it down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27712832) by [yeeharley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeeharley/pseuds/yeeharley)




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